


Mizimir

by imaginary_golux



Series: Coats and Customs 'verse [12]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Orcs, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2014-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 02:05:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 39
Words: 51,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginary_golux/pseuds/imaginary_golux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas and Gimli are finally together again in the White Mountains.  Of course, there's more to building a city than love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The White Mountains

Laney finds the trip south to the site of the new city fascinating. She’s never been farther from Belegost than Rivendell and the Shire, after all; the Misty Mountains looming on the left are taller and fiercer than the Blue Mountains of home, and the flat empty lands through which the caravan travels are nothing like the rolling green hills of the Shire. Now and again they meet with Men, surly uncommunicative fellows who help ferry the caravan across the rivers of the downlands; while Laney is fairly sure that the Men are overcharging the caravan, Gimli is unfailingly polite to them – not that it seems to make the Men happy.

Gimli is as interesting to watch as the passing downlands – sometimes moreso. It is odd to think of Gimli son of Gloin as the new lord of this future city; for as long as Laney can remember, Gimli has been the head bodyguard to Prince Bilbo, known for his immense loyalty and great skill, and for being the Ring-bearer-bearer, the one who carried the great hero in his weakness and defended the entrance to the volcano until the Quest could be completed. Now Laney must begin to think of him as a Lord in his own right, a Prince who will reign alongside his true love in the new city they will build together.

Poor Gimli spends most of his time when he is not actively overseeing the caravan’s business – and the caravan goes along smoothly enough, with each group looking after their own wagon – or talking with surly Men – which is not a pleasant pastime, and Laney is glad that Gimli has taken that responsibility – looking off to the East with a wistful expression. The dwobbits and the Ereborean dwarves murmur among themselves that Gimli is thinking of Legolas, whose sudden misfortune was the catalyst to their own departure. Laney thinks they’re almost certainly right; Gimli is clearly utterly smitten with his elven prince, and, well, that is how dwarves love, after all: utterly and eternally devoted to their One. It must be hard for Gimli to know that his true love is in trouble and not be able to go to him.

Laney finds herself, rather inadvertently, becoming something of a leader among the dwobbits. She is called upon to help fix the wagons whenever the wood begins to warp or splinter – most dwobbits being experts in metal, after all – and she has spent enough time with Thrain to have a little of the cachet of royalty rub off on her. And, technically, she is the cousin to a queen; the Ereborean dwarves seem rather impressed that her father’s brother’s daughter is Queen Kes, who is by all accounts quite well liked in Erebor. She finds herself walking beside Gimli fairly often, talking with him about the roads to come and the eventual site of the city. He knows little more than that it is a wooded site in the White Mountains, where there are said to be rich veins of ores and gems which have mostly not been mined because of their proximity to the lands of Men, who were not always such firm friends of the dwarven folk as they have grown to be. So Gimli and Laney spend long hours discussing this and that problem which might arise; what to do if the stone is unsuitable for building, or the tree roots have delved too deep and destabilized the soil, or the riches of the deeps are less rich than might be desired.

Now and again Gimli will break off in the middle of a sentence and look East for long moments, and then shake himself vigorously and return to the conversation; and Laney never teases him for these moments, nor calls attention to them, because such a love is not to be denied, and she would not for all the world cause hurt to her Lord, who is fast becoming her friend.

*

They reach the site of the new city well before the elves. Gimli, showing Laney the map, has pointed out that the elves have longer to go, and through less pleasant territory; though Laney supposes that elves might _prefer_ to walk through woods than open fields. Laney takes charge of organizing the dwobbits when they reach the White Mountains: Gimli is spending more and more time each day staring East and North, whence Legolas will come.

So it is Laney who oversees the unloading of the wagons, and the taking apart of the wagons to use the wood again in temporary homes, and the minor squabbles over who gets first use of the wood; and every evening she meets with Gimli in the twilight, standing on the bare knoll from which he keeps his vigil, and tells him what has been done and built and made that day, and he thanks her.

“I know I do too little,” he tells her, one day five days after their arrival, “but I cannot help but think that perhaps some great injury has befallen Legolas, that he has not yet arrived; and so I wait, and fret, and cannot bring myself to look away from where he might appear.”

Laney pats him gently on the shoulder. “We all understand,” she replies. “The dwarves of Erebor have told us that they know how hard it is to be separated from your love; and if we dwobbits have never felt that longing yet, still we know in our bones how it must be, and we are glad to let you watch and wait, if it soothes your mind at all. We have all in hand; do not fret over us, but wait for your elf, and we shall celebrate with you when he arrives.”

“Thank you,” says Gimli solemnly, and then grins a little. “Were I not in charge of dwobbits, I should be less sure that all would go smoothly in my absence; but you are a sensible people, as your mothers are, and I have no fear that you will become fractious or quarrelsome without me.”

“We are an even-tempered folk,” Laney agrees. “Though I should ascribe my constitution rather to my father than my mother – you know that Bofur is never so out of temper that he would not rather tell a joke than aught else, and Bombur my uncle is calmer than stone.”

“There’s that,” Gimli says. “I am lucky to have a child of Bofur’s line among my people; for as you say, the ‘Ur family is known for its calmness and competency under pressure.”  
Laney laughs. “Well, except for Uncle Bifur; but that is the fault of the axe, and not his own temper, and in any case he is calm enough when he is not in battle.”

Gimli glances one last time in the direction of Rohan and the longed-for arrival of his prince, and then begins to make his way down the knoll towards the tents and half-built low houses of his people’s encampment. “It is my sincere desire that the berserker tendencies of the dwarves – and of hobbits, too, for I have not forgotten Primrose Axe-Maid – will never be necessary in this new city of ours. And at any rate, who would attack us? We are friends with the kings of Rohan and Gondor, and there are not enough Men in the empty lands to make up even a very small army.”

Laney shrugs. “I have heard it said that there are still orcs in the hills, hiding away.”

Gimli grimaces. “Well, if they are in the hills, let them stay in the hills; as long as they are no trouble to us, I shall not trouble myself to go looking for them.” He shakes his head firmly. “No, let my new city be a place of peace and trade, where those of every race may come and go freely and without fear, and I will be content with what I have made.”

“It is a good dream,” Laney agrees. “I shall be proud to work towards it, I and all the dwobbits who have come this far. Let it be a place where each may make her own decisions, and become her own person, and no one need fear hunger or poverty or war; and that will be a good place indeed.”

“May the Valar hear you,” says Gimli solemnly, and then they are among the dwobbits again, and there is no more time for private speech.


	2. We Meet Again

It is Gimli, of course, who first sees the approaching elves; and his cry of joy brings the dwobbits up from their labors to his bare little hill. The elves are still far off, and around them ride Rohirrim, clearly escorting their new neighbors. It is a fine fair day, and the elves move quickly, but it still takes hours – far longer than Gimli cares to wait – until the elves are near enough for Gimli to make out Legolas’ form leading them, tall and fair and beautiful as a birch tree in the spring, as the alabaster pillars which hold up the greatest halls of Erebor.

Legolas can see Gimli, of course – keen-eyed Legolas has picked out his beloved easily, there atop the bare knoll where Gimli stands with Laney beside him and the dwobbits clustered about – and when they are near enough that Legolas cannot bear the waiting anymore, he gives his excuses to the Rohirrim, and to Lariel who walks beside him, and runs forward, lightfoot over the grass; and Gimli strides down from his hill eagerly. Laney waves the dwobbits back; this moment, when Legolas and Gimli finally meet, should be for them alone.

So there is no one around when they finally find each other in the long grass, between the dwobbits and the approaching elves, and Legolas falls to his knees and wraps his arms around Gimli’s broad shoulders, and Gimli curls himself around his beloved and holds on, strong and sturdy as a mountain, with Legolas’ face buried in his beard and both of them unable to even find words for their relief and joy.

It is long moments before Legolas raises his head and smiles up into Gimli’s eyes, and Gimli bends his head to rest their foreheads together, grinning until his cheeks ache.

“At last you arrive,” he says hoarsely. “I shall never let you leave again, _ghivashel_ , now that I have you in my arms.”

“My star,” Legolas replies, “now that I am here, I will never desire to leave; indeed, nothing in the world could induce me to do so.”

And then Gimli cannot help but kiss his beloved; and they do not pull apart until the sound of horses’ hooves on soft earth lets them know that the Rohirrim are near, and with them the elves of Legolas’ expedition. Only then does Legolas stand, putting a hand on Gimli’s shoulder as if he cannot bear to cease touching his love, and turn to smile at his followers.

“I think you know Lariel,” he says, gesturing to the tall fair woman who leads the elves, “and we were honored by the escort of Theodwyn daughter of Theodred of Rohan and her troop.”

“I thank you for your care of my beloved and his people,” Gimli says to the Rohirrim leader, who grins down at him out of a sun-browned face.

“It was my pleasure,” she assures him. “Now that we have brought the elves this far, however, I think it is time I returned to my father’s court to bring him this news. Be welcome to the White Mountains, Gimli son of Gloin – for I have heard many tales of you these days past from Prince Legolas!”

Gimli laughs, and so does Lariel, and Legolas goes a bit pink around the ears. “Bring my greetings and those of my people to Theodred, and to Theoden King your grandfather,” Gimli replies, “and tell them they are welcome in the city we shall build – though perhaps it would be wise for them to wait a little before they first visit, as we have not yet built houses suitable for taller folk.”

“These words I shall take,” Theodwyn promises, “and gladly too.” Then she and her troop wheel and ride away, and Gimli turns to lead his beloved and the elves to the site of the city that will be.

*

Legolas has never been so glad to see someone as he is to see Gimli, sturdy faithful Gimli, there on the plains of Rohan that day. The trip down from the Greenwood has not been difficult, exactly – oh, the arrangements for bearing away all the things which nearly a thousand elves might find desirable were not pleasant, and the leavetaking from his father was genuinely miserable, but the actual _traveling_ was easy enough. But leaving behind his home, which he has loved for as long as he has been alive, and his father, who Legolas _still_ loves despite everything, in the full knowledge that he will probably never see them again, was a hard thing, and every step away from the Greenwood was harder than the last. The only thing which kept Legolas going was the knowledge that every step brought him closer to Gimli, and Gimli is worth giving up Greenwood and father and all.

And now Gimli is here, in his arms, and Legolas does not know if he will ever be able to let go. The strength of Gimli’s broad shoulders under his hands is a comfort, a bulwark against the world; the rough warmth of Gimli’s beard is better than the softest silk could ever be. And Gimli, bless him, does not ask what is wrong, or draw back in surprise when Legolas abandons propriety and simply throws his arms about him; no, Gimli holds Legolas to him and makes soft soothing noises and murmurs how very glad he is to see Legolas, and the words thrum through Gimli’s broad chest and the sound and vibration are strangely comforting.

And with Gimli’s strength beside him, it is easier than it has been for weeks to stand and put on his princely face and speak the proper words to the Rohirrim princess who has escorted them this far; so Legolas ignores the fact that Lariel is eyeing the hand Legolas keeps on Gimli’s shoulder with a speculative expression, ignores the fact that she herds the rest of the elves away from them so that Legolas and Gimli can walk together, in peace and silence, towards the encampment of dwobbits. Lariel is a good friend, and if she has read all of Legolas’ pain and the surcease of it in the touch of his hand on Gimli’s sturdy shoulder, well, that is not such a disaster, really.

*

Lariel and Laney do not immediately become great friends. To Legolas and Gimli, watching with some amusement, they look a little like a pair of wolves meeting for the first time, each assessing the other as a potential threat to their standing in the pack. Seeing tall, fair, war-trained Lariel giving short, dark-haired, unashamedly civilian Laney mistrustful looks, as though the dwobbit might perhaps attempt at any moment to bite her knees off, is frankly hilarious as far as Legolas and Gimli are concerned. And seeing tiny plump Laney giving an elf twice her height and many times her age disparaging looks which suggest that Lariel is an untried youngster is _also_ hilarious.

Finally Gimli steps forward. “Lariel,” he says, and she turns to look at him, keeping half an eye on Laney. “This is Laney daughter of Bofur, a skilled carpenter and my right hand.” To Laney he continues, “Laney, this is Lariel, who I believe is to Legolas as you are to me – a great good friend and a help in times of need.”

Legolas nods, and the women both relax a little. After a moment, Laney slants a mischievous glance at Gimli and says, “So, was yours pining the whole way here?”

Lariel laughs aloud. “Oh, yes,” she says merrily. “Come; I think we have stories to tell each other, do we not?”

Legolas and Gimli watch their friends walk away, already chattering, and Legolas says slowly, “Somehow, there is a great foreboding upon me at the idea of Lariel befriending Laney daughter of Bofur.”

Gimli sighs and loops one arm around Legolas’ waist. “Ah, well, you are doubtless right, my _mizimel_ , but it is good to see them laugh.” He shrugs. “And they have been putting up with us for so long – it is only fair that now we must put up with _them_!”


	3. Height Differences

Building the new city is a little more complicated than anyone had expected. It’s not a matter of people not getting along with each other – both elves and dwobbits are fully prepared to be friendly, and make concerted efforts to be polite and understanding of each others’ preferences. It’s a beautiful thing to see, and Legolas and Gimli spend a lot of time watching their people make friends and grinning foolishly at each other. There are not many stonemasons or miners among the elves, and not many woods-wise hunters among the dwobbits, but the carpenters and weavers and gardeners gather into groups and share their tricks and hard-won knowledge eagerly, and the elves give due respect to the dwobbits who dig the foundations of their houses, and the dwobbits give due respect in turn to the elves whose hunting brings in enough venison and rabbit and squirrel that the communal stewpots are rich with fresh meat.

No, the complications come from such a simple fact that Gimli feels a little stupid at overlooking it. To be fair, he and Legolas were spending their time fretting that dwobbits and elves would turn out to hate each other, or that Laney and Lariel would decide to have a blood feud, or that Thranduil would go _utterly_ mad and have Legolas imprisoned or even executed…and so they both managed to forget about the simple and unavoidable fact that elves are, on average, about twice the height of dwobbits.

This makes communal buildings more complicated to construct.

Thankfully, the realization that _everything_ is going to have to be made in two sizes, that seats for dwobbits at elf-sized tables will need steps and that windows will have to be tall enough to be opened from the top or the bottom, that doors will need low doorknobs and ceilings will need to be raised – at least in any building which will be frequented by both elves and dwobbits – is greeted with gales of laughter by all parties, and endless teasing of Legolas and Gimli that they had not thought of this already.

So between the dwobbits busily excavating foundations for a council hall and a communal dining hall and houses for everyone who wants to live above ground – those who will want to live below ground have agreed to wait a little while until the easy digging is done, so that all the miners can concentrate on doing the stonework _properly_ – and the elves bringing in as many trees as the carpenters can deal with, each tree selected carefully so as not to disrupt the forest or over-harvest anything, the city begins to look like more than a rough encampment with surprising speed.

Every week or so, Theodwyn and her riders come by. Legolas is fairly sure that she has been tasked by her father and grandfather with keeping an eye on the new city rising on the edge of Rohan’s lands, and does not begrudge Theoden his caution. It is only fair to wonder about such a new thing: a city of many races, where those who could not live in the lands of their birth have come to build a new life. And Theodwyn is a polite and pleasant young woman, who looks over the growing buildings and the cheerfully exhausted elves and dwobbits with kind eyes and compliments the bare bones of the future city generously.

*

The city is growing fast, bare wood buildings and the beginnings of tunnels providing enough shelter for everyone, and Laney and Lariel have the dwobbits and elves well under control; truly did Gimli name Laney his right hand, as she has been essential to this new venture, and Lariel, beneath her joking and playful nature, is as steady and hard-working as any dwobbit. Legolas and Gimli are needed only for the largest of decisions: where to place the streets and the council hall, who should sit on the council, what to name their city.

(They have not quite decided on that last yet; it is hard to decide on a name which will please everyone, and for now it does not look much like a city anyhow: the wood is still newly-cut, the tunnels short and their floors uneven. Someday, everyone hopes, this will be a fine fair city, queen of the White Mountains; but for now she is young.)

And so, two months after Legolas’ arrival, Gimli finds the free time to visit the six Ereborean dwarves in the rough tunnel they have begun to excavate for themselves. He is immensely curious about what could _possibly_ have brought Ereboreans to the new city, half-elven as it is. They have been as hardworking and enthusiastic as anyone could want, and have made many friends among the dwobbits and been perfectly polite to the elves, so Gimli is willing to give them a lot of benefit of the doubt, but still, it is a strange thing indeed for full-blood dwarves of Erebor to come this far out of their comfort zones.

*

Legolas looks up in surprise as Gimli comes into their as-yet-tiny house, puts his axe down on the rack by the door, and collapses onto a cushion before the fire with an unwonted lack of grace.

“My stone, what ails you? Did the dwarves tell you aught which dismayed you?”

Gimli turns at the worry in Legolas’ tone and offers him a half-smile. “No, my _mizimel_ – it is only that I have found I am more a dwarf than I thought, and it has brought a bad taste to my mouth.”

Legolas leaves his fletching and comes to sit beside Gimli, leaning against his shoulder. “I do not see how your being _more_ a dwarf should be a problem, my star.”

Gimli laughs, but there is not much mirth in it. “They are…there is not a word for it in Common. They are couples, three pairs of lovers.”

“And…this is a problem?” Legolas is baffled. “I thought dwarves were fine with same-sex pairings. Certainly the fact that I am _male_ was never such a problem as that I am an elf!”

“A man with a man, that is fine,” Gimli says slowly, “for that we have many men and few women. And if a woman devotes herself entirely to her craft, as many do – even Lady Dis would have preferred to do so, I know – that is all well and good, for no one may deny a dwarf their craft. But for two women to love, and yet to have no children, that is a great…a great fault in them, in the eyes of my people. We have few enough women who will love in any event; that any should love, and yet not be fertile…” He shrugs uncomfortably.

Legolas hooks his chin over Gimli’s shoulder and considers this for a while. “Among elves,” he says finally, lifting his head a little, “love may be between any pair at all, for who can gainsay love? But it is true that an elvish parent will be _happier_ if there is a chance of children from their child’s pairing.”

Gimli sighs again and turns to kiss his beloved. “Look you, _ghivashel_ ,” he says after long pleasant moments, “I have learned that though I have turned against my people in many things, I who love an elf and live among elves and dwobbits and have taught Khuzdul to one not of our race, still I am a dwarf in many things. But as I have learned that my people are wrong to say that elves are creatures to be hated and mistrusted, so shall I learn that my people are wrong to say that two women should not live together and love each other in happiness.” He pauses a moment, and then continues slowly.

“We are building this place to be sanctuary,” he says. “Let it be a sanctuary, then, for those of every race who find that they are not comfortable among their own people for that they love against custom, or they desire a craft denied them, or any other reason, so long as they shall abide by our laws and live peacefully among us. I will not cry out against these Ereborean dwarves – no, not even in my thoughts, for what have they done that I have not? They are as much people of this new city as you or I, beloved, and I shall teach myself that, though it may take me a while.”

Legolas kisses his beloved thoroughly. “Always you astonish and delight me,” he says when they have parted. “Let our city be a sanctuary, indeed, for all who need it; and let my star continue to be a light in the darkness, for me and for all of Middle-Earth.”

Gimli grins. “Flatterer,” he says, and the evening dissolves into laughter.

*

The next day Gimli makes a point of going and asking Mida and Kir for their advice on the newest tunnels, and their expressions of surprised delight are a wonderful thing indeed.


	4. Domesticity

It takes Laney several days to really warm up to Lariel. The elf is no Tinde Cururyn, and there is no instant camaraderie between them; but Lariel is cheerful and clever and has a mischievous sense of humor which balances Laney’s own steady and slightly solemn good sense nicely. They work well together.

It is Lariel who figures out that it’s easier to have low tables with cushions around them than high tables that the dwobbits need stairs to see over; it is Laney who figures out how to make a latch that lets the half-doors work, so that dwobbits need not open a door too tall for them and elves need not duck their heads under low lintels. Between the two of them, they hash out how much land to clear for building, and which trees must not be cut down, where the tunnel entrances will be and how the streets will be laid out. Lariel insists on leaving wild spaces, parks where the elves can refresh their nature-loving souls; Laney insists on gardens, on each house having its own plot of land in front or in back.

And Lariel has many, many amusing stories about Prince Legolas and his pining over Gimli, which she is only too happy to tell over dinner to groups of dwobbits and occasionally the six Ereborean dwarves.

*

The elves have four festivals a year, one for each season; the dwobbits add their own Harvest Fair to the fall festival and the Flower Fair to the spring festival, and some of them celebrate Durin’s Day, quietly, without inviting the elves. The elves are not terribly offended – nor are the dwobbits offended to be left out of the quiet night of winter festival when the elves remember what they have left behind.

Some of the dwobbits learn to ski, that first winter; some of the elves learn to dance hobbit jigs, laughing at their own unaccustomed clumsiness. The communal kitchen is presided over by a pair of dwobbits and a rather harried elf, whose insistence on green salads rather than heartier fare tends to be ignored. Dwobbits are happy to eat green salads – so long as there is also a haunch of roast venison or a good pot pie or perhaps some stew with dumplings to go with it. And bread and ale and cheese if possible, and apples if they’re available, and definitely a nice tart or crumble or pudding for afters. Several if possible.

(Most of the elves are rather shocked at the amount of food dwobbits can put away. Legolas just laughs at them: he has seen _hobbits_ eat, after all.)

The cooks learn to trust each other, eventually, and the dwobbit Hemlin, who trained under Bombur in Belegost, is elected chief cook of the new city. The elven cook, Morumil, teaches him how to make _lembas_ , and they send the elven bread off with the workers every morning after that.

*

The communal hall, which was built mostly so that there would be a place for everyone to eat and sleep during those first weeks when everything else was still green timber and hope, turns out to be a very good idea. There’s nothing quite like eating dinner together, singing songs together and dancing when the week is over, sleeping rolled up on the floor all in a heap, to pull people from their disparate backgrounds into a true camaraderie.

During the harvest festival, the dwobbits crack open the three kegs of hobbit moonshine they brought down with them. Legolas backs away from the booze as if it’s going to leap up and bite him, but Lariel tries it, and a few other elves with her. The dwobbits have a very pleasant evening teaching thoroughly drunk elves dirty songs in Khuzdul, and how to dance the most complicated jigs they know.

Lariel comes to Laney late the next afternoon, with a headache-crease in her forehead, and says, “If you say ‘I told you so,’ I will hurt you.”

Laney laughs. “ _Legolas_ told you so,” she says, and Lariel glares at her for long minutes until Laney hands her a mug of hangover cure.

“I might forgive you,” Lariel allows, and Laney just grins.

*

It is Gimli who leads the tunneling, late that first year when the houses have been roughed in and the young gardens are beginning to be harvested, which finds the veins of gems beneath the mountains. He comes up from the dark earth grinning like a loon, with a raw diamond in his hand half the size of his fist, and presents it to Legolas with a deep bow.

“We shall prosper, my love,” he proclaims for all the people of the city to hear, “for even Moria and Belegost will send to us for gemstones, if I am any judge of the deep places of the earth. These mountains are a place of wealth indeed.”

Legolas grins, and presents Gimli in turn with a bowl made out of the wood of a tree which none of the elves had ever seen before, a wood which shines like dark midnight in his hands. “By the work of our hands and the wealth of our mountains shall we prosper,” he agrees, and Gimli lifts one hand in triumph and joy.

“This is a Jeweled City indeed, my heart!” he cries, and so it is named.

The elves call it Mirost, city of jewels; the dwobbits call it Mizimaguthol, the gemmed citadel. But as the years go by and the two peoples begin to become one people, they start to call it _Mizimir_ , jewel of jewels as it is.; and Legolas and Gimli smile at each other as elves learn Khuzdul and dwobbits learn Sindarin and the city’s tongue begins to be its own thing, Common mixed with words of Sindarin and Khuzdul for those concepts Common does not have: a new thing, like the city. A good thing.

A jewel.

*

Ten years pass, as years will. The mountains are beautiful all year round: in the spring they are covered in flowering trees, their leaves the palest green imaginable; in the summer the forests shade everything in emerald, and the wide plains of Rohan are like a sea of every shade of green and yellow; in the fall the trees turn red and orange like flames upon the heights; and in the winter the black branches rise against grey skies or bend down under the weight of diamond-bright snow.

Beneath the mountains, the tunnels grow ever more extensive, and not a day goes by but the miners emerge with one fine gem or another. The Men of Rohan come to the Jeweled City for their metalwork, and the nobles of Minas Tirith send away down the White Mountains for jewels to adorn their ladies, and Mizimir grows rich.

Five years in, the mirror-tower network between Belegost and Moria and Mizimir is finally completed, and the dwobbits send quick messages north – _Happy Birthday_ and _I miss you_ and _Getting married_ – and smile when their parents and siblings send good wishes back again.

There begin to be children. Not many, since the dwobbits are mostly too busy working to find time to marry, but some do, and so there are tiny dwobbit children in the Jeweled City, and a few of the elves, praising Arwen Tindomiel and Bilbo of Belegost, pair off and present to their admiring and wondering friends tiny miracles. The dwobbits find that elven mores agree with dwarven and hobbitish in this at least: all of them cherish children as their greatest treasures, and so as the children grown they are allowed to wander nearly anywhere in the city without supervision, since any adult there will aid and protect them without a second thought.

Life is good in the Jeweled City, Mizimir of the mountains, peaceful and prosperous and full of joy.


	5. Isengard

Amdir has never known anything but the high black walls of Isengard, and for many years this has contented her well. Gandalf, who calls himself her guardian, has given her free rein within the walls of the tower, and she knows every inch of its winding stairs and hidden rooms, has read every book in its many libraries and can use every tool in its workshops and kitchens, save only those which require magic. She speaks three languages fluently, and reads four; she can, for reasons known only to Gandalf, make proper courtesies and dance and sing and play two instruments. She is the very model of an accomplished young lady, he tells her often enough, with a sort of odd pained pride. The only thing she cannot do is fight.

She is not quite sure, however, why Gandalf has chosen to teach her how to interact with the Men and elves of Middle-Earth. She has read the history books in the libraries of Isengard. She has very few illusions as to how most of the people of Middle-Earth would greet an orc.

She is twenty-one, though neither she nor Gandalf knows how orcs count maturity, when Gandalf calls her to him one evening in the high room which is his study, and greets her with an odd and nearly apprehensive look upon his face.

“Tell me of your day,” he says, and she sits down across from him with a shrug. The question is familiar: he asks her this every evening, either over dinner or in his study, and has since she was old enough to wander about on her own, without his constant supervision.

“I finished Elrond Peredhel’s book on the First War of the Ring,” she replies, “and then I made bread and stew, and practiced my Umbari calligraphy until dinner.”

“You have a fine hand,” Gandalf agrees, and she lets herself smile at the compliment. Gandalf does give compliments often, but he also looks at her with an odd expression whenever she excels at something – calligraphy, or baking, or Sindarin.

“Elrond Peredhel speaks of my people,” she offers into the silence. “He calls them mindless, and unthinking, though he describes the weapons they invented. Yet I do not think that I am mindless.”

Gandalf puffs on his pipe, thinking. Amdir has learned not to rush him: he will say what it pleases him to say, when it pleases him. At last he sighs. “Elrond is wise,” he says, “but not infallible. Yet during the wars against the Dark, we who fought on the side of Light looked upon the orcs and saw very little in the way of intelligence. A sort of cunning, yes, and a great skill in the creation of weapons; yet never the sort of thought which marks Men and elves, dwarves and hobbits as the creations of the Light. Even during the years when Morgoth and Sauron were fallen and weak, and the orcs made their own tribes in the hills and caverns of Middle-Earth, still we saw nothing which said to us, ‘Here are people who think and dream and strive,’ but only butchery and cruelty; the only innovation that which created more terrible weapons, the only joy that of slaughter and torment. And so we decided, we who watched, that orcs were not capable of thought and dream and innovation, that when Morgoth created them out of blood and terror, he gave them no deeper talents than killing.”

He pauses, and puffs again at his pipe. Amdir has never learned to love the smell of pipeweed, but the ventilation in the high study is good, and she is far enough away that the smoke does not bother her. It’s still odd to her that Gandalf takes such pleasure in sitting still and making smoke rings: she always prefers to be _doing_ something, baking or reading or whittling or sewing, than simply _sitting_.

“I have always been curious,” Gandalf continues, finally. “It is why I am here, on Middle-Earth. I wanted to know more. It is a great danger, being curious; but I have learned many things from mortals which those who have never set foot on Middle-Earth will never know. So when I found an orcling in the tall grass, surrounded by the corpses of her…family…I took her up in my arms and brought her to Isengard to see if, perhaps, what I and all of Middle-Earth knew of orcs was wrong.”

“And here I am,” Amdir finishes the familiar story. “The orc who proves that we can learn, and not merely act as dumb beasts do.”

“Yes,” Gandalf agrees; and Amdir thinks, yet again, that she is never sure how to react to the pride in Gandalf’s voice when he praises her. Is he proud of _her_ , for being clever and quick to learn? Or is he proud of _himself_ , for taking her in?

There is another long silence, and Amdir, who hates sitting still with a passion, begins to catalog the trinkets on the shelves behind Gandalf’s chair in her head. _Game piece, broken pipe, goose-feather quill, pocket knife, tinder box…_

“As it stands,” Gandalf says, and there is an odd note in his voice which Amdir has never heard before, “I am still the only person on Middle-Earth who knows that orcs are not mindless beasts.”

“The only person not an orc,” Amdir replies, stung. “I am sure there are others of my people _somewhere_. I cannot be the last.”

Gandalf makes a gesture of surrender. “The only person not an orc, then. But that will hardly do the orcs any good, you know, if they ever come down from the hills where they are hiding. I cannot be everywhere.”

“You have some plan, then, to teach the Men and elves and dwarves and hobbits, who hate my people with a great passion, that we are…” Amdir trails off, unable to think of a good word. _Tame_ , perhaps, since she often thinks that Gandalf regards her as a sort of pet.

“I do,” Gandalf agrees. “I know you listen when I speak to the Rohirrim.”

Amdir had honestly thought that she was stealthier than that. She knows that the Rohirrim would react badly to the sight of her, but the idea of people who _aren’t Gandalf_ is so appealing that when the Rohirrim arrive, every month, to bring grain and dried meat and vegetables for Isengard’s kitchens, Amdir hides – not always in the same place, of course – close enough to be able to see and hear everything. The Rohirrim are tall and pale-skinned and fair-haired, and they speak in Common with a faint accent which is different from Gandalf’s, and they are endlessly fascinating. So are their horses, though Amdir is honestly too afraid to get close to the great beasts: their teeth are so big, even if they are flat, and their hooves are _enormous_ and tear up the ground rather worryingly. Amdir’s not sure she’d ever be brave enough to actually ride one of them, even if the opportunity arose.

“I do,” she agrees, because lying to Gandalf never goes well – she learned that years ago.

“Then you have heard them speak of the Jeweled City of the White Mountains, where elves and dwarves live in peace, and anyone is welcome?”

“I have,” she agrees again. It sounded…unlikely the first time she heard about it, and continues to sound unlikely every time the Rohirrim mention it. Every book on elves and dwarves which she has read describes their rivalry and distaste for each other: a city where they live together in harmony is an odd, odd thing indeed.

“I think, if there is anywhere in Middle-Earth where an orc might be accepted, it would be there,” Gandalf says, “and Legolas and Gimli are old friends of mine, though I have not seen them for many years.”

“You were on the Quest of the Ring together,” Amdir says, for that story too is long familiar to her.

“I was, and for my actions in that Quest they will, at the very least, hear me out.”

Amdir isn’t sure she has a choice, at this point, about being brought to the Jeweled City to see if its fabled tolerance extends even to orcs; but she nods anyway, because nothing grates quite so much as feeling powerless, and says, “Then I shall go to the Jeweled City,” as though it is a simple thing indeed.


	6. The Hills

Thaukha may well be the apprentice to the year-keeper, and therefore rank higher in the tribe than anyone but the year-keeper herself, the chieftain, and the chieftain’s daughter…but that does not mean she gets out of hauling water every morning. No one does. She usually ends up working next to Shatauz and Shakopa, who are quiet in the mornings and do not laugh raucously while Thaukha is still waking up. Of such things are friendships made.

Being the apprentice year-keeper _does_ mean that Thaukha doesn’t have to help tend the tiny farm clearings scattered over the territory the Madargon clan claims, which is nice, since she’s not actually very good at anything related to farming except scaring off birds, and that’s a job for children. On the other hand, while Shatauz and Shakopa get to go off and get their hands dirty and come back laughing and sweaty for dinner, _Thaukha_ gets to sit down with old Burzha and work on memorizing the songs of past years. There are many, many songs.

Thaukha is good at memorizing the songs – she would not be apprentice year-keeper if she wasn’t – but sometimes her head hurts and she thinks that digging in the dirt would be much, much easier than sitting and reciting. It’s not as though that’s _all_ Thaukha does, of course; she also mends clothing, since that’s relatively simple to do without thinking, and she’s using all her thinking up in recitation. No one in the clan is allowed to sit idle, with their hands empty of work, not during the hours when the sun is high.

Madargon isn’t a huge clan, as clans go; the songs tell of clans a thousand strong, back when the uruk marched under the banners of Darkness. But Madargon is a wealthy clan, with a stream and many small clearings fit for farming, far enough from the haunts of Men that it is unlikely they will be found. Its songs go back almost all the way to Morgoth and the first uruk, which is a long lineage indeed, and Thaukha can list every chieftain in order all the way back. The chieftain when the uruk marched against the White City was powerful of mind, strong enough to keep her people around her and under control when the Ring was destroyed and all the power of Sauron dissolved, and she kept her people together as they fled into the hills and found a new place. Thaukha is her great-granddaughter, as it happens; but most of the clan is related to Eitur-who-saved-us, since she was much sought after as a bearer once the clan reached safety.

Today Burzha sets Thaukha to reciting the song of the death of Sauron. Thaukha likes that one – they all do, when Burzha sings it to them over the fires at night, and the clan stamps their feet and claps their hands and chimes in on the chorus, two hundred voices strong.

“The Ring came out of the deep places, we know not how,  
And the Great Eye called together the nine-and-ninety clans in the East,  
And the Nazgul rose again from their long sleep to command the uruk.  
 _That was the last dark time, it shall not come again._  
Then the Shadow came upon the minds of all the uruk,  
So that we could not sleep nor eat nor speak without its knowledge,  
So that all things were as it ordered, and none could think of singing.  
 _That was the last dark time, it shall not come again._  
And of the nine-and-ninety clans, eight-and-eighty were lost,  
For their year-keepers perished under the Shadow and were not replaced,  
And the uruk of those clans were lost to the dream forever.  
 _That was the last dark time, it shall not come again._  
The Great Eye ordered the clans and the clanless into battle,  
And we followed the Nazgul towards the White City where Men rule,  
And the son of the ruler was to open the gates and let us in.  
 _That was the last dark time, it shall not come again._  
The gates were opened, and a Man emerged in armor,  
Who challenged the Lord of the Nazgul and slew him upon the plain,  
And the Great Eye was turned upon the White City in rage.  
 _That was the last dark time, it shall not come again._  
The gates were opened again, and the uruk entered the city,  
But the Men were strong against the uruk, and beat us back,  
And the dwarf and the axe-wielder were like a wall before the clans.  
 _That was the last dark time, it shall not come again._  
Then the Ring was destroyed, we know not how,  
And the Great Eye closed forever, and the Black Tower fell into ruin,  
And the Shadow was lifted from the minds of the uruk.  
 _That was the last dark time, it shall not come again._  
Then Eitur called the clan Madargon together, all who yet lived,  
The year-keeper and the tattoo-maker and the warriors with their scars,  
And brought them into the mountains to live without fear.  
 _The dark time is over, it shall not come again._ ”

“Hmph,” says Burzha when Thaukha has finished. “Well done.” Thaukha preens a little – Burzha is not generous with praise – and they sit in silence, concentrating on the small things in their hands, for a little while. Thaukha gets up to tend the fire and stir the stew in its ever-present pot; Burzha waters the small garden behind the hut they share with water Thaukha hauled this morning.

As the sun begins to slide down the sky, Burzha starts the song of Varazadi, who led the clan when Morgoth fell, many years ago. Thaukha listens, as she is meant to, and joins in on the chorus. Varazadi brought the clan out of Angband and into the brown lands, and under her rule the clan prospered, insofar as uruk have ever prospered. Her line continues, of course; most of the chieftains who are named in the songs have many-greats-grandchildren among the clan’s living members. It is the way of the uruk, to breed for strength and skill, and those who have proven their strength and skill have many suitors. The current chieftain, Kasak, has eight children; Burzha has six. Thaukha will likely have several when she is old enough to be courted. The year-keeper is always a sought-after parent.

The clan’s adults straggle back in the dimness at the end of the day, some laden with meat or edible plants, others empty-handed and filthy from pulling weeds. They still have not quite figured out everything there is to know about farming, but at least they have mastered pulling weeds. The children are tired from the long day of chasing birds and butterflies, and collapse about their mothers’ feet, some wrestling half-heartedly. Thaukha helps dish out the stew, and takes her bowl to where Shatauz and Shakopa are sitting; she is too old to sit at her mother’s feet, and she is not fond enough of the chieftain to sit beside her and Burzha in the place of honor nearest the fire.

After dinner, to Thaukha’s surprise, Burzha stands and gestures for Thaukha to join her. “Tonight,” she tells the clan, “my apprentice will sing the song of the destruction of the Ring.”

Thaukha gives her mentor a slightly despairing look and draws herself up as tall as she can. “This is the truth as we have seen it, as we know it, as we remember it,” she proclaims, the traditional opening to every song, and the clan murmurs, “We remember,” low and solemn in the dancing firelight.

She gets all the way through the song without squeaking, and when she’s done, the clan stomps their feet in applause, and Burzha claps her on the back and sends her back to her friends. Shatauz says, “You did well.” Shakopa nods.

“Burzha didn’t warn me,” Thaukha says faintly. “I’m lucky my tongue didn’t dry up in my mouth.”

“Eh, trials are never warned for,” Shatauz shrugs, and Thaukha has to agree with that. It’s true, after all. One of the great truths of the uruk.

That night, as they walk back to their hut in the starlit darkness, Burzha claps her on the shoulder and says, “You’ll be a fine year-keeper. You’ve a good voice, and a fine memory. You do me proud.”

“Thank you,” Thaukha says, and is glad that it is late so that she need say nothing else before she rolls herself up in her blankets. She is too overwhelmed with joy and pride to speak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm going to be out of town for the holidays, which will interfere with my posting chapters. The next chapter of Mizimir will go up on Thursday the 2nd of January. Happy holidays, everyone!


	7. The Jeweled City

Amdir is too hot in the hooded cloak, and the horse is enormous and terrifying, and she has her hands locked around the loop at the front of the saddle and is clinging on with every ounce of strength in her legs. Gandalf, riding behind her, is clearly amused by this, and Amdir occasionally spares a moment to think the filthiest words she has ever come across in his general direction. Sindarin has some surprisingly good swear-words, and the Black Speech is gratifyingly full of them. And when Amdir is mentally swearing at Gandalf, she doesn’t have to think about how far off the ground she is, and how fast the horse is moving, and how large its hooves are.

It’s not the most auspicious approach to the Jeweled City, really. Amdir tries not to read anything into it; omens are silly things and usually don’t mean anything except what the observer puts into them herself. But still. Inauspicious.

The Jeweled City is not a walled citadel, and so Gandalf is able to guide his patient horse right up the main thoroughfare to the council hall without any trouble. Some of the elves they pass greet him, calling him Tharkun, and he hails them back cheerfully. Amdir stares about from under her heavy hood: elves are _nothing_ like the Men of Rohan, and the dwobbits are something else again, shorter even than Amdir is and with such oddly furry feet. The elves are tall and fair and beardless, and graceful even in repose; the dwobbits have full beards and seem to laugh a great deal. Just as they reach the council hall, Amdir sees one of the few full dwarves of the Jeweled City, and is astonished at how broad and bearded she is, how many jewels adorn her braid.

It’s all a bit overwhelming, honestly, to encounter people of so many races after so long with no one but Gandalf to speak to, no one to see but the Men of Rohan and their horses. Knowing that the only things keeping her safe are the hooded cloak and Gandalf’s company does not help to calm her down, either, and Amdir is thoroughly on edge as Gandalf loops the horse’s reins over a convenient hook and leads her into the council hall.

Someone has clearly run ahead to warn the rulers of the city that they are coming. Legolas and Gimli are waiting at the far end of the hall, in a pair of matching chairs. Amdir is mildly impressed by the artifice required for chairs which make _both_ rulers look majestic, even with their immense height difference. There is at least one very skilled carpenter here.

There is a dwobbit woman standing beside Gimli’s chair, and an elven woman beside Legolas’; Amdir assumes they are the prime ministers, or chief councilmembers, or something similar. Everyone looks a little…disconcerted, though they seem welcoming enough, and Amdir suddenly wonders what Gandalf’s twenty-year retreat from the world has looked like to everyone else. He’s been holed up in Isengard, after all, and from the tales he’s told her, the _last_ hermit wizard in Isengard went mad and attempted to become a dark lord. Perhaps Legolas and Gimli are right to be a little worried.

“Hail, Gandalf,” Legolas says when Gandalf comes to a stop in front of the thrones, Amdir tucked nervously behind him. “Be welcome in Mirost, old friend. This is an unexpected pleasure.”

“I do not intend to stay long,” Gandalf replies, and behind him, Amdir tenses up even further. He’s not going to leave her here alone, is he? “I have been too long out of the world, and would fain go and see what has become of it while I lingered in Isengard. Yet of all the cities of Middle-Earth, this one is most suited, by nature of its fair and just rulers and its diverse peoples, to look after my ward for me whilst I travel.”

Gimli shoots Amdir a curious look. “Your ward?” he inquires. “We are glad to do a service for an old friend, of course, but I did not know you had company in Isengard.”

“My ward,” Gandalf confirms, “Amdir by name. I have raised her since she was an infant, and now I think it time she learned to live in the world outside the tower.” He tugs Amdir gently in front of him, and before she can think to seize the edges of her hood, pulls it from her head. Everyone on the dais rears back in shock.

“That is an _orc_!” cries Gimli, and reaches instinctively for the axe beside his throne. The elven lady grabs for the knife at her waist, and the dwobbit lass steps back hastily. Legolas grabs at Gimli’s arm.

“Oh, thank you, I hadn’t noticed,” Amdir snaps, and claps a hand over her mouth in shock at her own outburst.

There is a brief, frozen silence. Then Legolas leans forward, still clinging to Gimli’s arm, and says slowly, “I confess, Gandalf, I was not expecting your ward to be an orc. _Why_ have you raised an orc child to adulthood?”

Gandalf’s hand is heavy on Amdir’s shoulder. She shrugs it off and glares up at the rulers of the city, suddenly too angry to censor her words. “Because he wanted to see if I really _was_ a mindless killing machine, or if perhaps my people too have minds and souls. And now that he has proven to his own satisfaction that I am _tame_ , this is the second phase of his experiment: to see how I do around those who wish my death.”

All four of the people on the dais are gaping at her by the time she is done, and behind her, Gandalf sighs, and murmurs, “I would perhaps have put that more diplomatically.”

And then Gimli gives a great bark of laughter, and puts down his axe, and slides off of his throne and strides down the steps of the dais to stand in front of her. And smiles. “Be welcome in Mizimaguthol, Amdir Gandalf’s ward,” he says. “I have met orcs ere now across a battlefield, and they would as soon have slit my throat as looked on me; but I do not think you are a danger to my people and my city.”

Amdir gapes at him. “Why _not_?” she says, baffled. “I am as much an orc as those you fought.”

“Because the orcs of Mordor would never have raged at me with _words_ ,” Gimli says, almost kindly. “They would simply have tried to take my head off. No orc would suffer its weapons to be taken from it, and yet you walked unarmed into my hall. And no mindless creature which desired my death would stand so still beneath Gandalf’s hand and call herself _tame_.”

Up on the dais, Legolas is clutching the arms of his chair tightly, clearly torn between coming down to join his beloved or going for a weapon, and the elven woman and the dwobbit lady are staring at their liege with wide and disbelieving eyes. Amdir can’t really blame them: she doesn’t entirely believe what’s happening either. She had half assumed that this audience would end with Gandalf having to fight his way out of the hall, or with her lying dead in the heart of the Jeweled City. To have Gimli son of Gloin, Gimli the Guardian who held the cave-mouth of Mount Doom until the Ring could be destroyed, who is known as one of the finest warriors in Middle-Earth…to have _him_ , of all people, give Amdir welcome to the Jeweled City, is entirely unexpected, and for several long minutes Amdir cannot find any words at all.

At last she swallows in a dry throat and bows to him. “I thank you for the welcome, my lord Gimli,” she says. “I will do my best to be worthy of it.”

Behind her, Gandalf chuckles. “Good!” he says cheerfully. “Now _that’s_ settled.”

Legolas makes a faint sound which might be horror. The elven lady behind him has braced herself on the back of Legolas’ chair. But the dwobbit lass shakes herself as if waking from a dream, and comes down from the dais to stand beside her liege.

“If Gimli says we are to welcome you, then be welcome,” she says, and if it is not the most gracious greeting, it is at least not outright rude. “I am Laney daughter of Bofur, and I suspect it falls to me to find you a place to stay – and something to do.”

Gimli shoots Laney a grateful look, and Amdir bows to her. “My thanks,” she says. “I place myself entirely in your hands.”

And so Amdir comes to the Jeweled City.


	8. Settling In

Laney spends several days mentally kicking herself, very hard. What sort of _idiot_ volunteers to help an _orc_ settle in to civilized society? What are the chances that this will not all end _horribly_? And if Laney is the person closest to the orc when she finally, inevitably snaps and starts murdering people, well, then Laney will be the first person to go, won’t she?

Orcs have been the monster under the bed all of Laney’s life: late-night spooky stories invariably featured the Battle of Azanulbizar or the Battle of the Shire or the recounting of Lord Thrain’s last days in Moria, before the Balrog came, and in all of them loomed the orcs, horrid mindless creatures who wanted nothing but slaughter. It’s hard to even _think_ the word ‘orc’ without shivering a little.

But at the same time, the more time Laney spends with Amdir, the harder it becomes to insist, even to herself, that this polite, slightly short-tempered, rather nervous young girl is of the same species as the monsters who have featured in Laney’s infrequent nightmares. It’s impossible to imagine Amdir, who hates getting the hem of her tunic muddy and is happiest up to her elbows in flour, ever so much as picking up a weapon, much less using it against anyone. And while Amdir may _look_ like an orc – short and wiry and with slightly stringy dark hair – she certainly doesn’t _dress_ like one, or _act_ like one, or _speak_ like one.

So as the days go by and Amdir continues to be absolutely nothing like the orcs from the scary tales of Laney’s childhood, Laney begins to relax around the other woman. Not that this magically solves all of the problems which Amdir has inevitably brought with her.

The first problem, of course, is the question of where Amdir is going to _sleep_. Just about no one in Mizimir wants an orc for a housemate, and leaving her in the council hall just doesn’t seem right somehow. Amdir suggests she be allowed to sleep on a pallet near the kitchen, but the general feeling among the cooks is that they don’t want an orc near the food if they’re not around to supervise – what if she poisoned it? Finally Laney flings her hands in the air and proclaims that the orc can sleep in _her_ house, tiny though it is; and indeed, there is just barely room to put a pallet in front of the fire for Amdir, which has to be moved every morning so that the two of them can get up, but at least it solves _that_ problem for the moment.

The second problem is what Amdir is going to _do_. Everyone in Mizimir has a job – Laney has two, actually, carpentry and being Gimli’s right hand – and Amdir, when asked, is eager to help out in any way she can. She hate sitting idle, she explains – has always hated it. She can sew, or bake, or clean, or do any number of small jobs; only give her something to _do_ , she asks, and she will be glad to do it, however menial or difficult it may be.

Actually, to Laney’s surprise and relief, the second problem turns out to contribute substantially to the gradual thawing of the people of Mizimir towards their newest addition. Both dwobbits and elves are inclined to like anyone who so clearly wants to pull their own weight, and Amdir makes no complaint about hauling wood or water, mending torn clothing or pushing bellows. It’s surprisingly hard to hate even an orc when she has been working hard beside you all day, and is as sweaty and unkempt and slightly sore as you are; and so Laney assigns Amdir to as many work parties as she can, and has the pleasure of seeing Amdir sitting with her day’s group at dinner, drinking small beer and smiling and being clapped on the back now and then by her new acquaintances. Laney begins to hear people talking about Amdir not as ‘that orc’ but as ‘the new girl’ or ‘Amdir, you know, the orc lass’ – which is a pleasant change indeed.

Laney cannot be said to immediately befriend her unlikely ward, though she does her best to see Amdir settled in safely and with as little drama as possible – that is her duty to her liege lord, after all. She is polite to Amdir, and makes sure the other woman has clothing which fits and work which does not injure her and food on her plate and a place to sleep…but Laney does not count Amdir as a friend, really, for quite some time.

In part, this is because Lariel is so very, very opposed to the very idea of Amdir’s presence, and Lariel is by this time one of Laney’s closest friends and her partner in the work of making sure Mizimir runs smoothly.

Laney forgets, sometimes, how much older Lariel is – how old _all_ the elves of Mizimir are. Lariel doesn’t look old, after all, doesn’t even have as much beard as a half-grown dwobbit child, and she is playful and cheerful and friendly, not solemn and sort of overwhelming like Gandalf. But she is old enough that she _has_ fought orcs, in the days when they swarmed in the Misty Mountains, before the Battle of the Shire destroyed them. (And isn’t that awkward, that Laney knows her father fought in the Battle of the Shire and slew a half-dozen orcs in fair combat, and now Laney cannot help but wonder if they were male or female, had they borne children, did they really _want_ to fight or were they forced into it?)

Lariel does not see Amdir, when she looks at her. She sees the orcs down from the Misty Mountains with their jagged weapons in their hands, sees the burnt and poisoned ground they left behind, sees the bodies of her companions when the battle’s lost and won. She does not see a slight young woman with her sleeves rolled up and her skirts traded for sensible trousers and a smudge of soot on one cheek from helping in the forges, does not see Amdir trying so hard to learn how to interact with the elves and dwobbits of her new home, does not see anything but the enemy within the gates.

Laney knows this because, after three months of shepherding Amdir around and having Lariel avoid both of them except for poisonous looks over dinner and pointed comments during council meetings, Laney leaves Amdir with Lin and Fenn – who at least know something of being outcasts, from their years in Erebor – and tracks Lariel down and fills her mug with moonshine until Lariel is finally drunk enough to talk. (It doesn’t actually cut into Laney’s stash very much – elves are such lightweights, honestly.)

Then the whole mess comes pouring out in bitter, angry words: how much Lariel hates the very sight of Amdir, and hates it worse when Laney is at Amdir’s side, acting as her friend when she should be at _Lariel’s_ side. It is an utter unbraced tunnel of a situation, and Laney spends hours that night braiding Lariel’s hair and murmuring soothing things and trying, in the back of her mind, to come up with _anything_ to solve it.

In the end, the best she can come up with – and Laney will freely admit that it’s not a very good best – is dragging her friend through the dim pre-dawn light to Legolas and Gimli’s door, banging on it until they open up (and carefully ignoring both their states of undress and the axe in Gimli’s hand – old habits die hard, it seems) and thrusting Lariel at them, snapping, “You said the orc could stay, _you_ deal with her.”

It is possible that Laney _also_ got a little drunk during the previous night’s maudlin weeping.

The upshot of the whole thing, since apparently Legolas and Gimli can be a tiny bit vengeful when woken at the crack of dawn to deal with their drunken, maudlin seconds-in-command having a spat, is that Lariel is assigned to show Amdir how to deal with forests (since Amdir knows as little about forests as she did about cities).

And the upshot of _that_ , two very tense months later, is Lariel dropping by Laney’s tiny hut while Amdir is out with the cooks, plopping down next to Laney on the bench outside her door, and saying, “If you say ‘I told you so,’ I will hurt you.”

Laney smothers her grin and leans against her friend’s shoulder. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” she replies, and together they watch the sun sink into the West and turn the sky crimson and gold.


	9. Deep Woods Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Black Speech will be in bold from now on.

If Brethil had found this even a year ago, he would have spared not a single thought before turning to run back to Mizimir, to bring reinforcements, armed warriors, every elf and dwobbit who could hold bow or axe or sword.

That would _still_ be the smart thing to do, he knows. An encampment of orcs in the White Mountains, within _any_ distance of Mizimir, is surely a thing to be exterminated with extreme prejudice. Everyone knows that you have to get rid of orcs as soon as possible – they breed like rabbits, after all – and you don’t want them anywhere near where people are living, because they’ll come down of the hills when they’re least expected and then, well, it’s best not to think about that. And up until about a year ago, Brethil would never have so much as doubted that orcs were vermin, no more than he would have doubted that trees have leaves.

But there is an orc in Mizimir now, and as much as Brethil might _want_ to think that she is an anomaly, gentle Amdir who bakes such lovely treats, well…where there is one anomaly, there might be another. And these orcs, he sees, as he watches from his hidden perch in a tall oak tree, are not behaving the way he expects orcs to behave. There is no fighting among them – indeed, none of them even seem to carry weapons any larger than a common eating knife. Most of the orcs within the camp appear to be women, each with two or three or four children following at their heels; others are old or injured, but all are working at _something_ , mending or whittling or tending the stewpot over the fire. There is one old orc sitting across from a younger one, and it looks for all the world as if the old one is _teaching_ the young one: the old one recites something, a long series of guttural sounds, and then the young one repeats it back, a look of concentration plain on her face.

So Brethil stays in his tree and watches all day, as the orcs move around their encampment – and that’s the wrong word, this is a _village_ , it’s a permanent sort of place, with a water wheel turning slowly in the stream and a main square and children playing under their mothers’ watchful eyes – and as the evening grows near, the other orcs trail in from every directions, muddy and sweaty but still not armed, swiping at each other wearily in mock-indignation. Brethil can see amusement and affection in the way they punch each other on the shoulder, or splash each other as they wash up in the stream, and he shakes his head in wonder: who would have thought that orcs could be _affectionate_?

Brethil watches them eat, each taking a bowl of the stew they’ve been tending all day, each taking a chunk of the coarse bread which one of them must have made this morning before he arrived. It’s an odd echo of the way the people of Mizimir still gather in the great hall each night, bumping shoulders and laughing and sharing food as families do. When the meal is over, the old orc who was teaching during the day stands up, and all the other orcs fall silent. The old orc speaks, her voice falling into a chanting cadence, and now and again all the other orcs reply, a chorus hundreds of voices strong. Brethil cannot understand any of the words, but he understands what is _happening_ easily enough: this is a song, or what orcs think of as a song. This is Gimli singing the _Saga of Bilbo Dragonslayer_ and all the dwobbits joining in on the good bits, or Legolas singing the _Lay of Oropher_ and the elves taking the chorus while the dwobbits stamp the beat.

And when he has seen that, Brethil knows that he cannot bring armed warriors to wipe out this tiny village, cannot bring fire and the sword. Knows that Amdir is not an anomaly, as the elves have so wished and hoped she would be. Knows that her people are _people_ , not animals, not mindless vermin with no desire save blood.

Knows that the elves have slain _people_ and never mourned them, and that if there is no way to make that right, at least there is a way to make some slight amends.

He turns to go back to Mizimir, to the jewel of the mountains, and tell his lords that Amdir must come back with him to speak to her people, and ask them to forgive.

*

“You know you don’t have to do this,” Lariel tells Amdir quietly. “The guilt of my people is not your burden.”

“This is the reason I am alive,” Amdir replies solemnly. “This is why Gandalf raised me, why he brought me to Mizimir. It is my purpose – not to assuage the guilt of the elves, but to see my people brought into the light of day without fear.”

Lariel sighs. “Well, I wish you all the luck in the world, then,” she says. “And I thank you, for the sake of my people. It may not be a pleasant lesson we are learning, but better a hard lesson than to never learn.”

Amdir shrugs. Ahead of them, Brethil stops and waves them forward, gesturing caution, and Amdir steps forward into her destiny.

*

Thaukha is more than a little astonished when an uruk wearing elvish clothing steps into the clan’s encampment. The newcomer is tall for an uruk, and well-fed, and clean; and her clothing is clearly made to fit her, not something stolen from a fallen enemy. She stops a few steps into the clearing and looks around, and Thaukha cannot quite help stepping forward – this is a new thing, and since Burzha is closeted with the chief, discussing the coming winter, Thaukha is the highest-ranked person in the village, the proper person to greet this unlikely visitor.

“ **Let there be no blood spilt between us this day,** ” she says, and the other uruk starts as if surprised and gives an odd little bow.

“ **I come in peace,** ” she replies, which is not the proper response at all, though it’s at least not an insult or an attack; and her accent is very strange, like nothing Thaukha’s ever heard. “ **I am Amdir.** ”

And what sort of a name is Amdir, Thaukha wonders? It’s certainly not a name she’s ever heard before – where is the mothername, the clan name? “ **I am Thaukha daughter of Lakhir, apprentice year-keeper of the clan Madargon,** ” she says in return. There – let the other uruk see how one _ought_ to introduce oneself. The stranger’s clothing covers her shoulders, so Thaukha can’t even see her tattoos: that’s just _wrong_. “ **Why are you here?** ”

Amdir looks even more startled, for some reason, but she holds out open, empty hands in a gesture of clear goodwill. “ **I am sent by the elves and half-dwarves of the city of jewels, to offer peace,** ” she says, and Thaukha feels her jaw drop. Of all the things she expects a strange uruk to say to her, all the messages another uruk might bring to Madargon clan, that is the very last one she would ever have dreamed of hearing.

“ ** _Why?_** ” she says, blankly, and the stranger shrugs, hands still held open and harmless at her sides.

“ **Because of me,** ” she replies. “ **It is a long tale, but I will tell it if you wish to hear.** ”

And that night at the fire, instead of a history song, the clan Madargon listens to Amdir, clanless and oddly-named, tell of her life and of the city of jewels, whose elves have sent her to bring peace. Thaukha listens intently, sitting beside Burzha with her friends behind her, and marvels that such a thing should happen, that any of the races of the Light should have taken in an uruk child and raised it into even such a strange adult as Amdir is.


	10. Among Strangers

For all her brave words to Lariel, Amdir is _terrified_ when she steps into the village of the orcs. They may be her people in blood, but she has never so much as _seen_ another orc before this moment – and none of the stories she has heard of them have filled her with confidence in their friendly and welcoming nature. To be sure, she has a theory that this is because the stories were written by the orcs’ enemies – but other than her own existence, she doesn’t exactly have anything to back that theory up.

The Black Speech feels odd upon her tongue, and from the way the other orcs react to her, she is not giving the proper responses that courtesy requires. In the back of her mind, she is astonished: orcs have _courtesy_! Along with the astonishment comes relief, that she _can_ speak to her people, that they understand the words which Gandalf taught her, that they _do_ have customs which allow them to greet a stranger with words instead of weapons.

Thaukha is clearly an important person in the clan, given the way all of the others defer to her. Amdir is not sure what an ‘apprentice year-keeper’ is – she knows the words, but the concept escapes her – but apparently it’s a high rank. Certainly she holds herself as someone who has authority, for all that she is smaller and slighter than Amdir. She welcomes Amdir, though not without some understandable wariness, and gives her water and a seat near the fire while they wait for the chief to emerge from her conference.

Amdir spends the hours while she waits for the chief in observing the people of clan Madargon. She is slightly astonished to see that none of them carry weapons or wear armor; for the most part, men and women alike wear short skirts of tattered cloth or tanned leather, and the women sometimes choose to also bind their chests; but aside from these brief pieces of clothing and rough belts with eating knives and other small tools thrust into them, the orcs wear very little indeed. They are all barefoot, though their feet do not have the fur which Amdir has come to expect on dwobbit feet; and on each orc’s shoulders are tattoos, black against their pale skin.

Amdir is most fascinated by the tattoos, because beneath her tunic, she too bears black markings on each shoulder, which neither she nor Gandalf has ever been able to decipher. They must have been put there when she was very, very young, since Gandalf would certainly never have done so; and now, looking at the orcs around her, she sees that even the infants in their mothers’ arms have tattoos on their shoulders. Looking more closely, she notices that every orc bears the same tattoo on his or her left shoulder: a shape a little like a jagged leaf with berries at its base. _Madargon_ , she knows, is nightshade in Common, the poison berry; and after some time of sitting in silence, she leans over to Thaukha and says, tentatively, “ **The tattoos – do they mark your clan?** ”

Thaukha gives her an incredulous look. “ **Of course,** ” she replies, and turns her left shoulder to show Amdir more clearly. “ **This is the clan mark for Madargon,** ” she explains, in the tones one might use to a very young child, and then turns to show her right shoulder. “ **This is my mothername.** ” Amdir looks over at the clusters of children, and yes, each little group bears a different tattoo on the right shoulder. “ **How else would I know my lineage?** ” Thaukha inquires. “ **Do you not have them?** ” She sounds horrified by the very thought.

Amdir shrugs out of her tunic. Normally, she’s fairly body-shy, but she’s wearing a breastband under it; she’s as covered as any other orc in this village. “ **I’ve never known what they meant,** ” she admits. “ **The one who raised me could not read them.** ”

Thaukha gives her a look full of pity, and leans in to look at her shoulders. After a moment she nods. “ **This is clan Goltur, who lived down east a way,** ” she says. “ **They went raiding in the lands of the horse-men, and last we heard, they had all perished; you may be the last of them, clanless girl. Your mothername is Varga, but I do not know her line.** ”

“ **Varga,** ” Amdir says wonderingly. Her mother’s name – something she had never hoped to learn. “ **Thank you for telling me,** ” she adds after a moment.

Thaukha shrugs. “ **You should know your history,** ” she says simply, and goes back to her mending. After a moment’s thought, Amdir folds up her tunic and puts it to one side, and picks up a bit of cloth and a needle. Mending, at least, she is perfectly able to do.

*

Amdir tells her story to the orc clan that night: how her birth clan was slaughtered by the Rohirrim, and she was found by Gandalf some days later; how Gandalf raised her in isolation in the tower of Isengard, and she learned all the arts of Men and elves and dwarves which she could turn her hand to; how for the past year she has lived in the Jeweled City with elves and dwarves and dwobbits (half-dwarves, she calls them, for the Black Speech has no word for them), has worked beside them and slept beside them and gone unharmed. And then she tells them that the elves and dwobbits of the Jeweled City have sent her to make alliance with the orcs, to offer peace and goodwill, and a new start.

And then she sits down and watches the commotion wide-eyed. The orcs are loud and wild as they speak each to each, gesturing frantically; the chief and the year-keeper go aside together and have a long conversation in low voices with sharp, urgent motions. Thaukha and her companions Shatauz and Shakopa sit with their backs to Amdir, surrounding her; she cannot tell if this is meant to keep her in or to keep her safe, and chooses to believe it is a friendly gesture.

At last the chief and the year-keeper return to the fire and, by dint of much shouting and a little physical intervention, manage to get everyone else to shut up. The year-keeper steps forward into the full firelight.

“ **This is the Dream,** ” she says, and the other orcs murmur among themselves, nodding and patting each other on the shoulders in what looks like joy. “ **It is not certain; it is not a promise or a thing which has already come to pass. But if there is a chance for peace, and we do not take it, we betray our mothers’ mothers back to the beginning of the uruk, back to the Shadow and the pain. If the offer is a lie, we shall go further into the hills; if we are hunted, we will fight back as our mothers’ mothers have done. But if we do not _try_ to make peace with the city of jewels, we betray the Dream.** ”

Amdir wants to ask what this ‘Dream’ is – she can tell that it has some immense meaning to the orcs around her, something beyond the literal sense of the word – but this is clearly not the time, so she sits quietly and tries not to draw attention to herself. The year-keeper steps back, out of the light, and the chief takes her place.

“ **I say that we shall send messengers to the city of jewels, to see if they speak truly through their messenger to us. Thaukha we will send, who knows the year-songs and can speak for the clan; my daughter Shatauz will go with her, to speak for the line of Eitur and Varazadi; my son Shakopa will go with her, to protect his sister and the apprentice year-keeper with his life. I say this; it shall be done.** ”

The clan nod, and grin, and slap each other on the back; and around Amdir, Thaukha and Shatauz and Shakopa shoot each other slightly panicked looks.

“ **Well shit,** ” Shatauz says finally.

“ **Trials are never warned for,** ” Thaukha replies faintly. Shakopa just sighs.

Amdir gulps. The people of the Jeweled City have gotten used to _her_ – but Amdir is as close to them as an orc can get in manners and clothing and speech. For all Brethil’s pretty words and Legolas and Gimli’s insistence that peace with the orcs is the right thing to do, this is going to be a very tense situation, and Amdir is, of course, going to be right in the middle.

Joy.


	11. Preparations

“Tomorrow there will be orcs in Mizimir,” Legolas says.

Gimli’s hands are gentle as he braids his beloved’s hair. “There has been an orc in Mizimir a year and more, _khajimel_. What is three more?”

Legolas shrugs, careful not to move his head – Gimli gets irritated when his careful braiding is disrupted. “Amdir is one thing, my heart. She barely even looks like an orc – I could take her for a Man, some days, or a particularly skinny dwobbit.”

Gimli is silent for a while. Finally he says, “That’s true enough. Brethil says the orcs of the hills are not like the ones we slew together – they bear no weapons, they wear no armor, they answer to no fell lord.”

“My head knows that,” Legolas agrees, “but, my stone, I am older than you; I had fought orcs before the Quest, you know. My heart is fearful within me, for I am letting the old enemy within the walls of this sanctuary we have built together.”

Gimli sighs. “I would be lying if I said there was no worry in my mind, no apprehension in my heart; but it seems to me that this is a thing we must do, something which will change the world again. We have seen two great moments in our time; third time pays for all, as the hobbits say. Let us go down in history as the lords of a great city, who dared to dream of peace between old enemies.” He finishes the braid and pats Legolas’ shoulder gently; Legolas wriggles around to look up into his husband’s face.

“But will they remember us as fools?” he says, and Gimli shakes his head.

“Never that, _hotukel_. As peacemakers. I say it shall be so – and who is there who dares to gainsay me?” He pulls himself up, thrusting out his chest and bristling at the shadows on the wall, and Legolas laughs, as he is intended to.

“Surely even the Valar would not dare to speak against Gimli Ring-bearer-bearer,” he agrees, standing and bending to kiss Gimli thoroughly. “I fret too much; it is a failing of the elves. Tomorrow will bring what tomorrow will bring, and we shall face it together; and what is there which could stand against us?”

Gimli grins up at him. “Do not fret over the orcs,” he advises. “Fret instead over the reactions of our brother kings, who will hear of our peacemaking soon enough.”

Legolas groans. “We shall be overrun with envoys,” he says. “I shall set Laney to preparing rooms for them.”

“She will love you for that,” Gimli laughs, and Legolas shrugs ruefully.

“I shall endure,” he says. “It is a talent of mine.”

“One I cherish,” Gimli agrees, and slides off his chair, and leads the way to the bedroom.

*

Thaukha has never seen a city before. Her mother was still young at the battle of Minas Tirith, when the Shadow fell from them; Thaukha has spent her life in the White Mountains, never seeing any structure larger than the water wheel which turns at the edge of the stream. Shatauz and Shakopa are of course in the same situation, but Shatauz is very good at pretending she has everything under control, and Shakopa is marvelous at keeping his face completely blank so no one can tell what he’s thinking at all. Which leaves Thaukha to do all the freaking out; wonderful.

The elves who are escorting them – only two, which is either an insult or a peace gesture, and at this point Thaukha is suspending judgment – are tall and pale and have long pale hair, and Thaukha is glad that one is wearing green and brown and the other is wearing green and grey, because otherwise she would be having serious trouble telling them apart. The one in brown is Brethil, according to Amdir, and the one in grey is Lariel, who is one of the assistants to one of the chiefs of the city of jewels. (Why a chief needs an assistant, and why anyone needs two chiefs, are questions Thaukha is putting off asking. Who knows why elves do anything, anyhow?) They speak to Amdir in Common, which is a relief – Thaukha speaks Common, of course, if badly, but she was under the impression that elves spoke some other language. Elvish, presumably. They give Thaukha and Shatauz and Shakopa wary looks, but Thaukha supposes she can’t really blame them for that: elves, so the history songs say, live for many years unless they are killed, so these elves might have actually fought orcs. Who knows how elves mark age, anyhow?

Thaukha is thinking about the elves because if she actually thinks about the size of the city they are approaching, the number of elves and half-dwarves (what is a half-dwarf, anyhow?) within it, all of whom are probably armed, since _Thaukha_ would be armed if a handful of elves were going to be walking into the village in a few minutes, and none of whom have reason to love uruk, she will probably panic. It is entirely possible that Thaukha and Shatauz and Shakopa will be dead at the end of the day, and while that will be sad for them, their deaths might give just enough warning to the watchers who have followed them (of course there are watchers following them) that the clan will be able to get away from the subsequent extermination effort. It’s not as though Thaukha and Shatauz and Shakopa aren’t replaceable, after all. No uruk is irreplaceable, except a year-keeper with no apprentice, which is why Burzha is even now heading higher into the hills with a small honor guard.

But the city: the city is _amazing_. It’s enormous; the entire clan could fit into it ten times over, with no trouble at all, with a house for each mother and children and so many houses left over that every man could have one of his own, and yet the city is full of people. Thaukha has barely even been able to _imagine_ the number of people in the armies that she sings about, and here is a city full of people, as many as the leaves on the trees, it seems. It’s wonderful and terrifying in equal measure, because this many people means they have enough food and water for this many people – and no one looks underfed here – and what can this many people _do_?

Amdir laughs beside her. “ **I had the same look on my face when Gandalf brought me here,** ” she says. “ **I had never seen so many people all together, nor any buildings except the tower of Isengard. You have the advantage of me there, at least.** ”

Thaukha gives her half a grin. “ **And I have comrades at my back, clanless girl.** ” She cannot help staring at a small crowd of people about her height, with light beards and bare, furry feet. “ **Are those half-dwarves?** ”

“ **They call themselves ‘dwobbits,’** ” Amdir replies. “ **Their mothers are hobbits, their fathers are dwarves.** ”

“ **What is a hobbit?** ” Thaukha asks, to distract herself from the fact that they are walking down a broad street between crowds of elves and dwobbits, who are giving the orcs looks of hostility and suspicion and worry, which is not the most comforting environment, really. At least most of them aren’t holding weapons.

“ **I am told,** ” Amdir replies slowly, “ **that they are a small people, shorter than we are, who live in the north and love to garden, and also that one of them destroyed the Ring and ended the War. Their prince, or something like it, I think he is; he is married to the king of the dwarves of Belegost.** ”

Thaukha stops dead and stares at her. Shatauz and Shakopa are also gaping. The elves stop and look at the uruk with some confusion, but Thaukha is focused on what she has just learned to the exclusion even of the possible threat of imminent death. “ **A _hobbit_ destroyed the Shadow?** ” she demands.

“ **Yes,** ” Amdir says, looking baffled. Thaukha exchanges glances with Shatauz, who nods solemnly. _That_ is definitely something the clan needs to know, and if they survive this, Thaukha is going to send word to Burzha and Kasak at once.


	12. The Truth As We Remember It

The chiefs of the city of jewels are suitably imposing, Thaukha decides, standing in front of them with the crowd of elves and dwobbits behind her and no one but Shatauz and Shakopa for support – Amdir doesn’t count, she’s not clan, hardly even uruk. One of the chiefs is an elf, with his long pale hair done up in elaborate braids with beads on the end, and the other is a dwarf, whose bright red hair and beard are also elaborately braided. Perhaps the braids indicate rank, Thaukha decides: the dwobbit standing beside the dwarf’s chair also has braided hair, though it is markedly less elaborate. There is an axe beside the dwarf’s chair, and a bow beside the elf, but neither of them are actually holding their weapons, which Thaukha takes as a good sign. The blank expression on the elf’s face is slightly less promising, but then elves, Thaukha is learning, are hard to read. Certainly Lariel and Brethil are not expressive in any way which makes sense to Thaukha.

It is the dwarf who speaks, in a great booming voice which makes sense for such a broad and imposing figure. “Be welcome in Mizimaguthol, orcs of the White Mountains, if you come in peace to make alliance with us.”

Thaukha can see Amdir getting ready to translate his speech into something the uruk can be expected to understand, but she steps forward and nods politely without waiting for the translation. “I thank you,” she says, a little haltingly. “Let there be no blood spilt between us. I am Thaukha daughter of Lakhir, apprentice year-keeper of the clan Madargon. My companions are Shatauz daughter of Kasak, chief’s heir of Madargon; and Shakopa son of Kasak.”

The elf speaks, voice smooth and even though there is no friendship in it. “I am Legolas, and my consort is Gimli son of Gloin. We are honored to welcome you,” he says, and Thaukha knows he must be lying about that, but at least he’s trying – that’s worth something, Thaukha supposes. It’s not the uruk way of doing things, but then, challenging the chief of the city to single combat is probably an inappropriate way of making peace.

But uruk have little patience for lies. “Why have you offered us peace?” Thaukha asks – because what is the point in asking anything else? That is the only question that matters.

The elf looks vaguely shocked. Amdir drops her head into her hands in slightly theatrical despair. The dwarf, however, laughs.

“As blunt as Dwalin Kingsguard, eh?” he replies merrily; it means nothing to Thaukha, but the tone is surprisingly friendly, and several of the dwobbits in the crowd laugh. “We offered you peace because we learned we were wrong to think that you were nothing but animals, and it is not right to slaughter people as though they were dangerous vermin. Now, a question for a question: why are you _accepting_ our offer of peace? Even if you are not mindless creatures, certainly I have never met an orc except Amdir who wanted anything but my head, and Amdir is a special case.”

Thaukha takes a deep breath. This is why the apprentice year-keeper was sent, she knows; this is why she is here, to speak these words to these people, in a hope as old as the uruk. “Amdir, you must translate,” she says in Common, and then, slowly, she begins to chant, hearing Amdir’s halting translation a beat behind her words. Shatauz and Shakopa, just behind her, add their voices to the chorus, low and reassuring.

“ **This is the truth as we have seen it, as we know it, as we remember it,** ” she begins.

“ **Before the darkness there were no uruk, and we do not remember.  
** **The uruk were made by the darkness, but we were not born of the darkness.  
 **When the uruk were made, the Shadow was placed upon us.  
 ** _We fight until death comes, and then there will be peace._  
 **In the darkness the uruk grew, and we looked out upon the world,  
 **And the world was green and beautiful, and we could not go out into it,  
 **And the elves and Men and dwarves hated us, then and always.  
 ** _We fight until death comes, and then there will be peace._  
 **When the Shadow ordered us to fight, we fought, and if we won there was food,  
 **And when we lost we left our dead unburied on the battlefield,  
 **And the children without mothers starved, and we fought again.  
 ** _We fight until death comes, and then there will be peace._  
 **When the Shadow ignored us, the mothers bore children,  
 **And the warriors found food, and sometimes there was enough,  
 **And we grew strong and waited on the Shadow’s command to fight again.  
 ** _We fight until death comes, and then there will be peace._  
 **The promise was made by the first mothers, by the first chiefs,  
 **Someday there will be peace for the uruk, but not under the Shadow,  
 **And when we die there is peace in a green land where no shadow falls.  
 ******************** _We fight until death comes, and then there will be peace.”_********************

She falls silent, and notices that Amdir looks utterly stricken beside her, though her voice has been a faithful echo to Thaukha’s throughout the song, and there is a strange look on the faces of the elf and the dwarf on their chairs. The dwobbit has a hand covering her mouth in what looks like shock. The whole vast hall is silent and still, and the elf has his hand clenched on his consort’s arm.

It is Thaukha who finally breaks the silence she has created.

“We _were_ mindless creatures,” she says to the elf on his high throne, the dwarf who holds the fate of her people in his hands. “We served the Shadow because there was no other path beneath our feet. We slew everyone we found because we could not imagine any other act. We looked at the green fields and the forests and we burned them because we could not have them, because there was no future in which we would live in a green place in peace. We hated you because the Shadow hated you, and because you lived in peace while we bred and starved in the Shadow and the deep places.” She stops and takes a deep breath – singing before the clan is nowhere near as terrifying as this is, and she cannot read the faces of her audience.

“The Shadow left us when Sauron died,” she says, and watches the elf recoil at the name. “Our chiefs took us from the walls of the city of Men and fled into the hills, because they knew we would be slaughtered if we stayed. But with the Shadow gone, we need not hate you anymore. We need not kill. We do not want to kill anymore; we want to live in peace. We want to grow things, to have children who grow up without scars. We cannot do that if you slay us whenever you find us. We have hidden for two generations: is that time enough, or shall we go farther into the hills and hide again?”

The elf makes an odd choking noise, and the dwarf shoots him a quick, worried look. Behind her, the crowd begins to murmur, but the sound is not hostile, so far as Thaukha can tell, so she does her best to ignore it, to focus on the warmth of Shatauz and Shakopa at her back and the faces of the chiefs of this city, sitting above her in judgment.  
The elf stands, face still utterly unreadable, and holds up a hand; behind Thaukha, the crowd goes silent.

“Mizimir is a sanctuary,” the elf says, slowly. “That is its purpose. Gimli and I have long since promised that Mizimir would be open to those of any race who came in peace; and if we did not think that orcs would be included, then that was a failure only of our imaginations.” He pauses, and Thaukha feels something like hope rising in her chest. “Therefore be welcome, Thaukha and Shatauz and Shakopa, and all your clan, and all your people, who come in peace; let the walls of Mizimir be open to you, and its people peaceful to you, and its lands welcoming to you, and we will call you allies and friends, and welcome you with open hands.” Beside him, Gimli stands, nodding, and grins down at the orcs.

Thaukha manages to say something polite, though forever afterward, she will be completely unable to remember what it was. She is too caught up in her own thoughts: _It worked, it worked, I can’t believe it worked. We are at peace._


	13. Reactions

“There are _what_ in the Jeweled City?”

Theodwyn puts her shoulders back and returns her grandfather’s incredulous glare steadily. “Orcs, my lord. An entire clan of them, I’m told, who wish to live in peace and learn to farm.”

Theoden frowns. “ _Orcs_. Who want to learn to _farm_.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Theoden leans back in his throne and exchanges glances with Theodred, who is in charge of the armies and the outriders now that Theoden is a little too old for battle.

“We have no authority over the Jeweled City,” Theodred points out. “And it is true that there has been no incursion of orcs upon our land for twenty years. If they have been in the hills, they have not been a threat to Rohan, nor, I think, to Gondor, for some time.”

“ _Orcs_ ,” says Theoden, with some heat.

“Send word to Gondor,” Theodred advises. “Let Aragorn King speak to the lords of the Jeweled City. And send Theodwyn again, to watch the orcs – she is clever and far-sighted, my daughter is, and she will send us word if all goes ill.”

Theodwyn goes a bit pink at the compliment, and Theoden nods reluctantly. “Word I will send to Aragorn, and Theodwyn I will send to the Jeweled City; and we will increase patrols along the southern and western borders. Let nothing move there but we know of it.”

“Even as you command, my king,” Theodwyn replies, and bows.

*

“There are _what_ in Mirost?”

“Orcs, o king,” says the Rohirrim messenger evenly. “I have seen them with my own eyes; they walk the streets freely, and each and all say that they have come to make peace and learn to farm.”

Aragorn does not gape, because kings do not gape while they are on their thrones, but he thinks about it very hard. Beside him, Arwen is doing her very best blank face – which is very good indeed – but Aragorn can see the tension in her hand on the arm of the throne.

“We thank you for the news,” he tells the messenger. “Bring our regards to Theoden King and to Theodred King-to-be, when you return to Edoras.”

“I will, o king,” the messenger replies, and bows his way out, and Aragorn turns to his wife.

“ _Orcs_ ,” she says, tense and unhappy. “I have no love for orcs, Aragorn.”

“I know,” Aragorn agrees; though he himself has little experience with them, he knows Arwen’s mother was grievously wounded at their hands. “But I cannot find it in me to reject a people who sue for peace – and it is not my decision in any case. Legolas and Gimli are wise and love their people well. I cannot think they would do aught to harm their city.”

Arwen grimaces. “It still sits uncomfortably with me, to have orcs roaming unopposed in civilized lands.”

“We will send Silmarien,” Aragorn says after a moment. “It is time she gained experience in other lands, and Legolas and Gimli will protect her with all they have, you know that.”

Arwen nods reluctantly. “Send Jonquil with her,” she advises. “He will see things she does not; and he would be appalled if he was left out of such an historic opportunity.”

“As always, your counsel is wise,” Aragorn agrees, and rings the bell to summon a page. If they are to have _any_ useful information, it is best to send Silmarien soon.

*

“There are _what_ in Mizimaguthol?”

“Orcs, my liege.”

Thorin rubs his forehead. “By Mahal, I hardly know what to say. Gimli is wiser than to let such a threat within his walls, and yet he has done so.”

Bilbo shakes his head. “I cannot guess what Gimli is thinking, but I do trust him, and Laney too – you know she would not let him do anything foolish.”

Thorin sighs. “Well, there’s little enough we can do about it from here. Send word back that we shall give Mizimaguthol what support we can, come what may, and ask that we be given regular updates on the situation.” He rubs his forehead again. “ _Orcs_. What is the world coming to?”

“Peace, perhaps,” says Bilbo quietly. “We can but hope.”

“May your habit of being right hold true yet again, husband,” Thorin replies softly. “I would not see Mizimaguthol fall.”

*

“There are _what_ in Mirost?”

“Orcs, Ada.”

Elrond is rarely angry, but Elladan and Elrohir can read him well enough: he is on the way to being truly furious.

“They _dare_ come out of their holes and pretend to be peaceful?”

Elladan shrugs. “So say the towers; and Legolas of the Greenwood never struck me as being a fool.”

“No more did Gimli son of Gloin,” Elrohir agrees. “Perhaps they know something we do not.”

“There is nothing I wish to know of orcs which I have not learned long since,” Elrond says tightly. “They are foul creatures, a mockery of everything which walks in the light.”

Elladan glances at his twin. “Ada, perhaps the messages are incomplete. You know the towers cannot send details at all. Send us to Mirost; we will learn what is happening and send proper word to you.”

Slowly Elrond nods. “Take Tiruth,” he says at last. “He will guard you well.”

“We will,” Elrohir promises. “We leave tomorrow.”

*

Tiruth has seen orcs before – five hundred years before. He may have failed to guard his lady against their blows, but he will not fail her sons. Orcs are foul creatures, dangerous and treacherous and full of cunning, but he will not be fooled. No orc will lay a hand on one of Celebrian’s blood, not while he has breath and life in him.


	14. Theodwyn

Theodwyn has been to the Jeweled City many times now; she has friends there among the elves and dwobbits, she has eaten beside them and laughed with them and come to the Harvest Fair several years running. She knows its streets and its habits and its people.

This is different. She is not here to see friends, to exchange news with Legolas and Gimli, to sing along after dinner with the _Ballad of Gilraen Nazgul-Slayer_. She is here to see what there is to be seen, to learn _why_ Legolas and Gimli have brought orcs, of all creatures, into the Jeweled City.

There are not many of them, she learns. Maybe fifty – not the entire clan, but a fair fraction of it, scarred males and females with children behind them, and though the chief has not come down out of the hills, Shatauz speaks for the clan and Thaukha for the orcs as a whole – a subtle differentiation which Theodwyn is a bit surprised to find that orcs can make.

Theodwyn does not spend much of her time with Thaukha and Shatauz. They are the leaders of the orcs in the city: they can be expected to be the most cunning, the best prepared with whatever story they are using to fool Legolas and Gimli into thinking they are peaceful and no longer dangerous. Instead, she goes among the common orcs, the mothers and their children, the taciturn males; and there she finds a strange thing.

She works beside them, for how better to learn them? She expects the work to be the training and sparring of warriors – what else would orcs do, violent and cruel as they are? – but instead, every morning, the orcs leave their little ones with a few of the mothers and go all together to the dwobbits who are in charge of the city gardens, and there they labor in great contentment, asking questions in their broken Common: what is this plant? How best should we weed, water, harvest? What should we add to the soil to make it rich?

The dwobbit gardeners answer the questions patiently, but as the orcs ask more and more complicated things, at last one of the dwobbits laughs aloud and says, “We are dilettantes, you know. If you want someone who knows every plant and its history, every nuance of planting and weeding and harvesting, you want a hobbit, one of the ones who stayed in the Shire and would never dream of moving to the mountains.”

The orcs looks at each other, and one of them finally replies, “What chance, if they will not even go to the Blue Mountains, that a hobbit would come to us?”

The dwobbit shrugs. “Oh, one might, if you asked. We may have left our mothers, but it was never because they were not kind and generous in all things. It’s just that most of them never go more than ten miles from home!”

The orcs look at each other again, and speak to each other in their strange harsh tongue, and one of them says, “We will ask. We have hope.”

Theodwyn returns to her borrowed quarters that night in some confusion. No people would spend so much time learning to farm for a ruse, she is sure: farming is hard and dirty work, to which Theodwyn herself is ill suited, and yet the orcs seem _happy_ to sink their hands into the soil, to coax plants into health, to haul endless barrels of water from the rivers and wells.

Theodwyn isn’t ever going to _like_ orcs, she doesn’t think, but it’s growing harder and harder to hate them.

*

Theodwyn is very glad that the elven scouts around the Jeweled City gave them more than a day’s notice of the approach of the princess of Gondor and her entourage. Not only because it gives her an excuse to remove herself from the roster of those hauling water and pulling weeds – activities which have definitely begun to pall – but also, she realizes as she stands in the great hall and watches Silmarien enter, because if she had been still streaked with sweat and wearing muddy clothing, she would have felt even more intimidated than she already does.

Silmarien is, quite simply, the most beautiful woman Theodwyn has ever seen. It is almost a terrifying beauty, the sort that oughtn’t exist in the world. She carries herself like she is already a queen, and when she enters the room it is as though everything else in the room grows dull and unimportant: why pay attention to the lords of the city when you could be looking at Silmarien?

Theodwyn is herself a princess, though not the heir – that is for her brother, steady Theomer, who is actually interested in taxes and harvests and all the boring minutiae of ruling – but she knows she will never have the sheer _presence_ , the utter certainty of self which Silmarien so clearly has. It’s a bit intimidating, and Theodwyn has never liked being intimidated.

It’s rather a relief to see that even Legolas and Gimli look slightly taken aback by Silmarien’s entrance; that even Thaukha and Amdir and Shatauz look startled and awed by the princess’ appearance. (Theodwyn never has any idea what Shakopa is thinking, but then, he never speaks and is apparently only a bodyguard, so she mostly ignores him.) Even unflappable Laney and good-humored Lariel look more impressed that Theodwyn has ever seen them. It’s somewhat reassuring not to be alone in her awe.

Silmarien greets the lords of the Jeweled City – in perfect courtly form, of course – and accept the offer of a house for herself and her small entourage with undeniable grace. Theodwyn watches her over dinner, later that evening, and again, there is nothing about the other woman that is not the epitome of grace and beauty and control.

Theodwyn cannot help but wonder if the princess Silmarien _ever_ looks anything other than perfectly put together.

*

Theodwyn is rather relieved, therefore, when she reaches the practice ring the next morning and finds Silmarien there before her, wearing the sort of old clothes which are suitable for weapons practice, with her long glorious hair bound up tightly out of the way, and with a fierce and entirely uncourtly grin on her face as she moves around the ring. She looks _human_ , instead of like some otherworldly, perfect creature, and as she turns to greet Theodwyn, long knife in her hand and grin on her face, Theodwyn thinks, _I could be friends with her._

Silmarien is good with her knives, Theodwyn learns over several mornings practicing with the other princess. She moves more like an assassin than a warrior, but then, it’s wise to teach a princess to fight as an assassin would, especially one like Silmarien, who wears long gowns and fine jewels instead of Theodwyn’s breeches and tunics and leather armor.

The practice ring is the only place Theodwyn ever sees Silmarien let her guard down. Everywhere else, she is never less than perfectly poised, utterly composed, and infallibly polite; she gives the impression of being completely unsurprised by anything, no matter how astonishing it may be. Theodwyn, who told her mother at the age of three that she was going to be a shieldmaiden when she grew up, and refused utterly to wear skirts, and never did learn to keep her temper when riled, is rather bemused by this; but in the practice ring, Silmarien laughs and jokes and grins her fierce grin, and there, at least, Theodwyn thinks she understands her.

It’s nice to understand _someone_ , since Theodwyn is pretty sure she’ll never understand the orcs. Who gets that excited about _farming_?


	15. Silmarien

Silmarien is not sure what to expect when she reaches Mirost. Her information is several weeks out of date: for all she knows, the orcs have reverted to their ancestral ways and laid waste to the countryside already, which is why Mardi sent ten of her most skilled warriors along with Silmarien as bodyguards. So Silmarien is rather relieved to see that Mirost is still standing, apparently intact, and to be greeted at its gates by an elven woman who introduces herself as Lariel, assistant to the lords of the city.

Mirost is quite pretty, really, though so _new_. Minas Tirith always gives an impression of immense age and stateliness, while this city is all newly-cut wood and stone, edges still crisp and clean. Silmarien is careful not to stare at the dwobbits; she’s never seen any before, and only a few dwarves when they come with the caravans from Moria now and again, and she is a little fascinated by an entire race of half-and-half children, so like herself in a way. The dwobbits and elves do tend to stop and stare at her, but she is used to that by now; has been, in fact, since she hit puberty and her mother pulled her aside one morning before court.

“You are my daughter, and you take after me in many things,” Arwen had said. “One of them is your appearance. Even as I am accounted the most beautiful woman of the elves, so too are you the most beautiful woman Gondor has ever seen. You must not let that go to your head, my dear: beauty is a tool, nothing more. It says nothing about your mind, or heart, or soul.”

So Silmarien uses her beauty as a tool, as a weapon, as a shield and a distraction; and it is not uncommon for those meeting her for the first time to be struck dumb by her sheer loveliness. Which would be frustrating, actually, if Silmarien allowed herself to be frustrated by things like that.

It is always important, her mother has told her, to make a memorable first impression; and so Silmarien sweeps into the great hall of Mirost as imperiously as she can manage. Is she not the crown princess of Gondor, heir apparent to the throne? Is she not Silmarien, of the blood of kings, heir of Arwen Tindomiel? And, more to the point at the moment, if everyone is busy being awed and slightly terrified by her beauty, they won’t notice her taking a few moments to get a good look at the first orcs she has ever seen.

They are short, as short as the dwarves, with dark hair and dark eyes. The one who must be Amdir, Gandalf’s unlikely ward, is pale and neatly dressed in a tunic and long skirt, and does not look like dangerous at all, to Silmarien’s practiced eye. The others – two females and a male, it appears – are tanned very dark, and their clothing leaves their shoulders bare to show off their tattoos. _They_ look dangerous, strong for their size and wary-eyed, but they are also tidy and clean and giving Silmarien rather flattering looks of awe, so she suspends judgment for the moment. And in any case, her _father_ is dangerous, her mother is dangerous, her guards and friends and brothers are dangerous; it is not as though Silmarien has never spent time around dangerous people before. It is more a matter of how they choose to use their skills than the skills they happen to have.

*

Silmarien is rather surprised to find herself drawn to, of all people, Amdir, Gandalf’s ward, the first orc to be accepted by the people of Mirost. But while Thaukha and Shatauz and Shakopa are all rough-edged, harsh people, who are clearly unaccustomed to the courtesies of court, Amdir is, in Silmarien’s professional opinion, a court lady – a minor noble, of the sort who runs her own household and is usually scooped up to be a lady-in-waiting for some higher noble or princess.

Of all the things Silmarien was expecting to find in Mirost, an orc with all the skills and courtesies of a noble lady of Gondor was _not_ among them. She finds herself gravitating to Amdir, just a little, because Amdir makes sense to her in a way the other orcs do not; oh, Thaukha is fascinating, and Shatauz is, if Silmarien is understanding correctly, a crown princess herself, but they are so far outside anything Silmarien has ever encountered before that interacting with them is, frankly, exhausting. Amdir is a wonderfully relaxing contrast.

Indeed, Amdir has some of the courtly skills which Silmarien herself, amusingly enough, lacks. Amdir is a skilled embroiderer, can distil medicines and perfumes, can cook and bake – is a wonderful baker, in fact – and has strong opinions on herbs and spices. Silmarien cannot do more than plain sewing, and would not have the first idea what to do in a stillroom, though she has some basic healer’s training.

“But _why_ can’t you embroider?” Amdir asks her one afternoon. Silmarien is watching Amdir bake; the orc is up to her elbows in flour and looks utterly contented.

“Because while all the other noble girls were learning embroidery, I was learning to kill a man,” Silmarien replies easily. “It was more important for me to be able to protect myself than to stitch a pretty scene.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” Amdir allows. She shrugs. “Whereas Gandalf took great care that I should never learn anything about weapons, since no one would ever trust an orc who could fight, not in the very beginning at least.” She grins wryly. “I am safer helpless.”

Silmarien looks her companion over, from the tidy hair to the neatly embroidered tunic to the floor-sweeping skirt. “I confess, when I met you, I did not think you would be fond of such a messy pastime as baking is.”

Amdir shrugs. “Flour washes off easily enough,” she replies. “And sometimes it’s pleasant to just get stuck in to something, and there’s a great pleasure in having _made_ something, you know? I can look at the bread and pastries on the tables at dinner and think, ‘I did that, I made it, I helped.’”

Silmarien grins widely. “Would you believe that I sneak down to the pottery twice a week while I’m at home, and make very simple bowls?”

Amdir gives her a frankly incredulous look. “I have a hard time imagining you with clay all over your fine hands,” she admits. “And your clothes!”

Silmarien shrugs. “I wear practice clothes, just like for weaponswork,” she says, “and as you say: there’s something pleasant in just getting stuck in to something. I like pottery. It’s good to look at a bowl, or a cup, and say, ‘I made that, and it is good.’ It’s not often that anyone of my rank gets to really see the results of what we’ve done, sitting right in front of us.”

Amdir smiles up at her. “It is a good feeling, isn’t it?” she agrees.

*

Theodwyn comes to Silmarien while the crown princess is sitting quietly by herself, bodyguards some yards away, watching the orcs at their gardening. They greet each other, and Theodwyn sits down beside Silmarien and watches silently for a while, and finally shrugs and turns to her companion.

“Perhaps I am a fool, but I cannot find myself distrusting the orcs. No one puts that much energy into learning to farm without actually wanting to.”

Silmarien nods. She has been anticipating just such a conversation, and after several long talks with Jonquil in the evenings, she has made up her own mind. “I also find myself convinced. They want peace; it is as clear as the tattoos on their shoulders. No one devotes themselves so to a task without a true desire for it.”

Theodwyn looks a bit relieved. “I was thinking, then – and we’d have to ask our fathers – but there’s the Empty Lands, right to the west of the Jeweled City. If our fathers agreed, that could be given over to the orcs. Goodness knows there’s not enough land for them to farm within the walls, and, frankly, I suspect neither Rohan nor Gondor wants them within the boundaries of our kingdoms.”

Silmarien thinks about the suggestion for a few minutes, and then she smiles. “You know, that’s not a bad idea in the slightest. I shall write to my father in the morning; do you send word to yours, and we shall see if the orcs do not have a new home by this time next month.”

They grin at each other, co-conspirators in this at least, and watch the orcs finish their labors for the day, trudging muddy and happy with their arms full of produce towards the kitchens. It’s a surprisingly pleasing sight, Silmarien decides. A good thing, and she will have helped to make it happen.


	16. Jonquil

Jonquil knows it’s probably inappropriate to be so excited about meeting orcs, but he is a historian and a poet, and here is an opportunity for him to learn the history – and maybe even the poetry – of an entirely new people! If he can get enough research done, he might even be able to add another immensely-popular book to his current canon: _The History of Umbar, The Life of Aragorn son of Arathorn and Gilraen_ , and _The Life of Arwen Tindomiel_ , the books which made him famous throughout the cities of Gondor.

It is probably a good thing, then, that he is quite distracted during the journey to the Jeweled City by attempting to ride herd on his children. Yozaya, thankfully, remained behind in Gondor – she was by no means willing to abandon her apprenticeship to Elia for a trip of indeterminate length – but that still leaves him with Ziraphel, who won’t stop pestering the guardswomen who accompany Silmarien, and Belthor, who spends most of his time pining rather adorably at Silmarien and trying to sketch her, and Inziladun, who thankfully just wants to see what Jonquil is doing at any given moment, especially if it has anything to do with books.

Usually Cidwen is more help, but she is scouting ahead, as a Ranger should. Jonquil is endlessly grateful for Silmarien’s patience with his son: Belthor is only eleven, after, all, and if Silmarien were to be cruel in order to dissuade him from his adoration, he might never recover. And the guardswomen, thank goodness, are good to Belthor’s twin, and most of them are only too happy to tell her stories about being in the Queensguard. The most relaxing parts of the journey for Jonquil are the moments when Belthor is off sketching a patient Silmarien, and Ziraphel is off listening to the guards regale her with their adventures, and Inziladun is – praise the Valar – asleep in the wagon, and Jonquil can just sit on the wagon seat and think about nothing at all.

When they get to the Jeweled City, Jonquil is surprised and relieved when a crowd of elves descends upon their little party and ends up carrying off the children to ‘see them settled.’ Apparently the stories he has told about elven fondness for children are quite true, and his children seem perfectly happy to be carried off: Ziraphel has cornered an elf who is carrying a bow; Belthor is clearly itching for his sketchbook; and Inziladun, borne in the arms of one of the taller elves, has one hand firmly tangled in the elf’s hair and is babbling cheerfully at him about the journey. Which leaves Jonquil and Cidwen to follow Silmarien into the great hall, and watch the various people turn to stare at their princess in utter awe.

*

“You’re a _year-keeper_?” Thaukha asks Jonquil incredulously. “But you’re _male_!”

Jonquil grins wryly. “It was a bit of a scandal among my people,” he acknowledges, “and I had to leave them and come to Gondor to be able to be a writer without everyone scorning me.” Which is a censored and not entirely accurate account of his arrival in Gondor, but the orcs don’t need to know exactly why a scared seventeen-year-old came to the court of his country’s enemies.

Thaukha shakes her head. “It would have been more than a _bit_ of a scandal among my people, but I suppose Men have different customs than uruk. Certainly elves and dwobbits do!”

Jonquil nods. “Men even have different customs than other Men,” he agrees. “But here – let me make you a deal. I will tell you the history of the world as Men see it, from all the reading I have done, and you shall tell me the history of the world as the – uruk, did you say? – see it, and when we are done, I shall write down what you have told me so that all the Men and elves and dwarves of Middle-Earth may read it and understand you, and you will know what we have thought and done and been while you were not…around.”

Thaukha considers this. “I may have to ask Amdir for help,” she says finally. “I can sing the history songs easily enough, but translating them into Common while I’m singing isn’t easy."

Amdir is more than willing to help, and so it is agreed. In a few days they fall into a routine. After breakfast, the three of them remain in the great hall, which empties out as everyone disperses to garden or smithy, mine or forest. Thaukha chants, starting from the very oldest songs she knows; Amdir translates, half a beat behind her; and Jonquil scribbles down notes as fast as his hand can move. After lunch, Amdir abandons them for the kitchens, now her usual workplace. (Thaukha will never cease to be amazed at the delicacies which Amdir’s clever fingers can create.) Jonquil takes his turn at speaking, telling Thaukha the history of Men during the ages she has described, and Thaukha files away everything he tells her in her well-trained memory. After dinner, Thaukha usually retreats to a quiet place with Amdir or Shatauz, to digest what she has learned, and Jonquil tidies his notes and plays with his children.

After a few days, those of the Jeweled City who have time in the mornings take to lurking about the great hall to listen to Thaukha and Amdir relate the history of the orcs. It is not a nice history, full of battles and starvation and long years spent in dark places, but it is fascinating nonetheless, especially for those who know the other side of the story. The elves, particularly, are intrigued by the idea that the orcs even _have_ history, much less such a detailed and well-remembered set of songs.

Amdir is also clearly fascinated by the history of her people. She does not have Thaukha’s perfect memory, so instead she has asked Jonquil, when he finishes his notes, to give a copy to her; and in the meantime, she and Thaukha have agreed that at some point in the future, Amdir should sit down and record all the history songs that Thaukha knows, as well as those of any other clan who comes out of the mountains, in the Black Speech. It is only right that the history of the uruk be recorded in their own tongue, after all.

Jonquil is ecstatic. The wealth of knowledge, of history and culture, contained in Thaukha’s songs is such that twenty historians could write all their lives and not have said everything about it; Jonquil will be able to write for as long as he lives, and never run out of material.

But even better, in a way, is the pleasure of finding a kindred spirit. Thaukha is a historian, even if she is young, and she has definite opinions about the history she has memorized. Sometimes they only get through one or two songs per morning, because Jonquil cannot help asking questions when Thaukha has finished reciting, and Thaukha often has long and complicated answers which fill his notepaper and the time.

In a way, Jonquil thinks, he is the best possible Man to be learning the history of the orcs, because after all, the Umbari were also under the Shadow. His people, too, have followed the Dark, and not always willingly. Thaukha’s songs occasionally mention the Umbari, as allies or at least not foes, and the history that Jonquil learned as a child definitely included orcs as occasional comrades in arms, though even the Umbari never considered them anything like equals.

“Do not look so ashamed,” Thaukha tells him late one morning, when he apologizes again for the attitudes of his people towards the orcs. “We were not equals to Men, then – how could we have been, with the Shadow always clouding our thoughts and turning them towards hatred and fury? What could we have created but instruments of torture and death? What riches could we have brought you but the bones of our enemies? Without the Shadow upon us, we are equals to Men – we live as long, we work as hard, we care for our children and learn peaceful tasks. But under the Shadow we were tools and pawns, and we cannot hate the other races for seeing us as we then were.”

Jonquil considers this for some days, discussing it with Cidwen in the evenings after the children are asleep, and when Silmarien writes to her father to urge him to let the orcs settle in the Empty Lands to the west, he adds his own letter to hers.

_…I do not know that Men could so forgive, had we been hated and hunted for so many generations for a crime not of our choosing; that the orcs, or uruk as they call themselves, can see so clearly that there is no blame except for him who made them as they are, is I think a mark of their great capacity for what we might call wisdom or compassion. I urge you, as your daughter does, to let them come down into the flatlands and discover peace; for what else can be the honorable and the compassionate course of action?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys, I'm really sorry about this, but Mizimir will be going on hiatus for a week. I have no buffer left, and I need some time to build one. There will be a short story in this 'verse going up on Wednesday, and Mizimir will resume posting on Saturday, January 18.


	17. Courting Customs

Thaukha enjoys her sessions with Jonquil – a male year-keeper! What an odd idea! - but she cannot deny that they are just as exhausting as anything Burzha ever had her do. Learning the history of the rest of Middle-Earth is good, and will be valuable to the uruk, but Thaukha sometimes goes to the dinner table with her head feeling as if it has been stuffed too full. It is a relief to retreat from the great hall to a quiet place overlooking the wide plains to the west, and sit quietly with Shatauz, who demands nothing more than Thaukha’s company.

Somewhat to Thaukha’s surprise, Amdir is also a pleasant companion in the evenings, even though she is full of questions about uruk history and culture. She does not have Thaukha’s trained memory, but she is smart and pays attention. She asks good questions, and offers stories of her own life in the tower of Isengard and of her first year in the Jeweled City, surrounded by elves and dwobbits and completely unaccustomed to any company at all besides the wizard. She brings mending and a lantern so that if Thaukha is too tired even to talk, they can sit silently in the evening dimness, and she is always willing to explain bits of elven or dwarven etiquette which are utterly bizarre to Thaukha – the polite lies they constantly tell, the meaning in the braids the dwobbits wear, the way the city is governed and how the chiefs were chosen.

Also she brings bread. Thaukha has seen many wonderful things since she came to the Jeweled City, and tasted more glorious kinds of food than she had ever dreamed of, but bread is possibly her favorite thing in the whole world. It is soft on the inside and chewy on the outside and spiced with wonderful things – spices! What a marvelous inventions! – and sometimes it is sweet and sometimes it is wrapped around bits of meat and sometimes it has a lovely bite to it, and Thaukha would cheerfully eat bread until she popped if someone offered to provide it.

Every evening Amdir brings a small loaf of bread out for them to share, something to fill in the corners after dinner, and every evening it is delicious. Thaukha takes care to compliment it lavishly every time, lest Amdir stop bringing it; one day she mentions the texture, the next an herb she particularly likes, or the way it is shaped, or the lovely decoration on the top. (Decorating food! What will they think of next?)

Amdir seems to have an endless supply of different types of bread, and Thaukha loves all of them, though she’ll admit the one spiced with the tiny hot peppers was a bit surprising.

(The hot peppers were the subject of some distress among the uruk who are learning to farm, back in the first few weeks of lessons. The dwobbits in charge of the gardens told the uruk they were welcome to taste anything in the garden, to learn about all the different types of produce, and one enterprising young uruk happened to see the tiny peppers on the plant in the corner…no uruk screams if she can help it, but the way he rushed to the water buckets and apparently tried to drown himself was clear evidence that something weird was going on. The dwobbits eventually sat him down with some bread and the admonishment that the hot peppers were best not eaten raw.)

A few months after they have begun to spend evenings together thrice or four times a week, Amdir sits down beside Thaukha with unusual trepidation and holds out the customary loaf of bread. Thaukha takes a piece and bites into perfection. It has a wonderful firm texture, and a little bit of bite, and a glorious mix of spices, and it is everything Thaukha has ever praised about the bread Amdir brings all rolled into one wonderful loaf. Thaukha makes an incoherent noise of happiness and finishes the loaf in less time than it takes Shatauz to skin a rabbit. Amdir watches with an odd, almost proprietary smile on her face.

“ **That was the best thing I have ever tasted,** ” Thaukha says when the last crumb of bread is gone. Amdir beams.

“ **I made it especially for you,** ” she admits, and Thaukha blinks at her.

“ **You’ve been making all the bread you bring, haven’t you?** ” she says slowly. Amdir nods, and Thaukha thinks she might be blushing.

“ **I haven’t dared to ask about uruk courting,** ” she replies finally, staring down at her hands. Thaukha begins to smile.

“ **Usually one person brings the other gifts to prove how well she can provide,** ” she says. “ **Since no other uruk in Middle-Earth can bake like that, I should say you’ve quite proven your worth!** ”

Amdir looks a little dismayed. “ **Is it only about worth, then? Nothing of love?** ”

Thaukha shrugs. “ **It depends on whether you want a partner or a mate.** ”

Amdir cocks her head curiously. “ **What is the difference?** ”

“ **A partner will live with you and raise children with you, guard your back in battle and warm your back at night. A partner you cherish. A mate will conceive children with you. Most uruk have many mates. Some stay around and help with the children; some do not. My mother has eight children, each with a different sire. She was much sought-after as a mate when she was young enough to bear easily.** ” She grins. “ **Since you cannot sire children on me, I would assume you wish to be my partner.** ”

Amdir is definitely blushing. It’s rather cute. “ **Yes,** ” she says quietly, to her hands. “ **You’re so smart and you’ve been kind to me and you’re beautiful. I would like to be your partner.** ”

Thaukha does her the courtesy of taking a few minutes to think. It is only low-rank uruk who take any offer immediately, without thinking through all the implications. Amdir is attractive, though she’s pale and wears elvish clothing, but that is the least important thing about any partner. She is clanless, but that is easy enough to fix if she is willing to be adopted into Madargon; that is not unusual at all, for one partner to be adopted into the other’s clan. She can bake bread, which is a skill no other uruk possesses, and she can read and write, which is probably even more valuable. With her help, Thaukha will be able to make sure that even if the year-keepers all die, clan Madargon will still have its songs preserved: with Amdir’s help, Thaukha can ensure that her clan never dies. So. Amdir is skilled, attractive, intelligent, and good company; she is not a typical uruk, to be sure, but in this changing world, being partnered to someone who can speak the tongues of elves and Men, who has the patronage of the Grey Wizard, who has skills no other uruk possesses, is by no means a foolish decision. And Thaukha, selfishly, wants more of these companionable evenings, sitting side by side with Amdir and speaking or being silent as the whim takes them.

Amdir has been fidgeting beside Thaukha for several minutes when Thaukha finally speaks again. “ **Yes,** ” she says decisively. “ **I should be honored to partner with you, for as long as we find each other suitable.** ” Thaukha knows Amdir will not know that her choice of words means that she considers Amdir to have the same rank as Thaukha herself – if she had not, she would have said ‘glad’ or ‘pleased’ or ‘content’ instead of ‘honored – but Amdir lights up with joy all the same.

Amdir has learned something of uruk custom, at least: she recognizes that the phrase Thaukha used has the cadence of something ritualized, and echoes it back perfectly. Then she grins. “ **That’s much more practical an oath than the ones the elves and dwobbits use!** ”

Thaukha gives her a curious look. Amdir shrugs. “ **Laney told me that Legolas and Gimli bound their lives together, and swore that they would love each other until death. That’s a fair long time, given how long elves live!** ”

Thaukha gapes. “ **Until death?** ” She laughs. “ **Death may come tomorrow or eighty years from now. How is any uruk to make such an oath as that? No; I shall stand beside you for as long as we both are honored by the other’s presence, and raise our children as sisters to each other, but I’ll make no foolish elvish oaths.** ”

“ ** _Children?_** ”


	18. Unaccustomed

Amdir is honestly a little surprised by how much she likes spending time with Thaukha. The other orc is smart – very smart – and funny and devoted to her people and their future, which is inspiring and intimidating in equal measure. She is astonishingly patient as she explains the ins and outs of uruk culture over many evenings sitting together looking west over the plains.

And her clear glee at the bread which Amdir always brings along is, frankly, rather adorable. For the first few weeks, Amdir simply enjoys being the bringer of good things – the way Thaukha’s eyes light up every time she sees the loaf of bread which Amdir has brought is a reward in itself – but after a while, when Amdir has grown fairly certain that she would like more than simple friendship with Thaukha, she begins taking mental note of the breads which Thaukha likes the best. It helps that Thaukha is quite voluble in her praise of Amdir’s gifts.

It is a quiet pleasure, after that, for Amdir to spend a few hours every day thinking about what sort of bread Thaukha might like best of all. After each morning’s work of translation, it’s good to stop thinking so hard about politics and history, and just get her hands floury and covered in dough; and in the middle of all the concern over what to do with the orcs coming down out of the mountains to make peace, courting gifts are a lovely distraction.

Amdir does not know what orcish – _uruk_ , she must remember that they call themselves uruk – what uruk courting customs are, but most races do give gifts of one form or another, so she thinks that making bread for Thaukha is probably at least a good start. She isn’t quite brave enough to ask Thaukha outright about courting customs, not yet; perhaps later, if Thaukha ever gives a sign that she’d be interested in Amdir.

Elves, Amdir knows, find life-partners and give their hearts away, and many of the tales in the books of Isengard dealt with the eternal loves of the elves. Dwarves, so say the stories, also mate for life. Hobbits, according to Gandalf at least, marry soon after their majorities and are almost uniformly content with their comfortable smials and huge families. Men, of course, marry for many reasons besides love, and Gandalf has told her of adultery and divorce, and worse crimes too. Amdir prefers the stories of elves and dwarves and hobbits, though she knows that surely there are tales which never make it into the books, wherein love does not go so smoothly or last so long.

But Thaukha and Shatauz and Shakopa are all unwed, as far as Amdir can deduce from their conversations, and none of them has ever spoken of a lover left behind in the mountains, or even of their parents’ relationships, though Amdir knows that Shatauz and Shakopa are the children of the chief, and Thaukha has mentioned her siblings now and again.

The day she finally confesses to Thaukha that the bread has been a courting gift is terrifying, but every moment of worry is worth it when Thaukha grins at her and promises partnership ‘for as long as they find each other suitable’ – a very sensible oath, Amdir decides. Much more so than the promises of elves and dwarves, for all that those lifelong pairings are terribly romantic.

But the subsequent revelation that uruk, unlike any other race Amdir has heard of, do not attempt monogamy – seem to not even consider it – is a little shocking. And Thaukha’s assumption that there will be children…

Amdir can be forgiven for squeaking a bit, she thinks. When she decided that she wanted to spend her life – or as long as possible, anyway – with Thaukha, she naturally assumed that that would mean she would have no children, since there would be no man in her bed. But Thaukha’s incredulous expression when Amdir explains herself suggest that, no, in point of fact, children are going to be a fact of Amdir’s life.

“ **All uruk who can breed, do,** ” Thaukha explains patiently. “ **There are few enough of us, after all. And uruk of high rank – year-keepers, great hunters, chiefs, those with knowledge or skills no others have – are the most sought-after mates. I am just barely old enough to begin thinking about mates, but I know there are many males in the clan who will wish to sire children on me; and there will be many who wish to sire children on you, too, because of your skills and knowledge. You will have high rank in clan Madargon, if you consent to being adopted, and high rank means many suitors.** ” She seems a little perturbed by Amdir’s shock. “ **You will be able to choose which ones you accept, of course. And it is common for partners of the same gender to take a mate together, so that their children will be half-siblings, so of course I will be glad to help you choose.** ”

“ **I need to think about this,** ” Amdir says, and, thankfully, the practicality of the uruk is on her side: uruk say what they mean, and take no offense at blunt language. Thaukha just nods and sits back to watch the stars come out over the western plains.

Amdir assembles her thoughts carefully. This is the rest of her life she is planning here – or at least until she or Thaukha no longer finds the other suitable – and she should approach it with due caution and consideration.

The thought of children is a shock, yes, but not altogether an unpleasant one. Thaukha does not make it sound as though Amdir will have to stay with any of the male uruk who sire her children longer than a night or two, and Amdir quite likes the few children who live in Mizimir, dwobbits and a few rare elves, and has been glad to help look after Jonquil’s three now and again. And to be perfectly honest with herself, Amdir has occasionally been very curious as to what sex with a male uruk would be like, even after she decided to pledge herself to Thaukha and assumed that would mean she would have no other partners. So. There is that settled.

Being adopted into Thaukha’s clan would hardly be a bad thing; it is not as though Amdir has any memory of her birth clan, and there are no other Goltur alive, so far as anyone knows, so it might be nice to be part of a clan which actually still exists. Amdir is pretty sure, knowing what she does of uruks by now, that being adopted into Madargon will involve a new tattoo, which will hurt horribly, but pain is not such a huge price, really, in the long run. It would be nice to have a family, actually. Gandalf was a patient teacher and cared for her well, but he was never what she might have called paternal, and certainly she cannot remember her mother. Yes, a family would be nice. So that is settled too.

And if Amdir is to be an uruk, not Gandalf’s strange orc, then she should be willing to take on the customs of her people, to learn their songs and live beside them and abide by their laws. It is not fair to pick and choose, to say, _I shall be an uruk when it suits me and reject the ways of the uruk when they do not please me_. If Amdir does not want to live as the uruk do, she should tell Thaukha now, and call off their just-formed partnership immediately, because Thaukha is uruk through and through, and she will be loyal to her clan as long as she lives, that is easy enough to see.

At last she nods a little to herself. That is all settled, then. She is not fool enough to think that she and Thaukha will never disagree, or that being truly uruk will be _easy_ for a wizard-raised orphan, or that all the challenges before her will melt away like dew on morning grass because she has found love, but here, at last, Amdir has found something to fight for, and she will put her whole heart and mind into being a fit partner to Thaukha, an uruk of clan Madargon, a woman of her people at last.

“ **I will be glad to raise children beside you,** ” she tells Thaukha, who gives her a broad and glorious smile and leans in for their very first kiss.


	19. Contemplations

Legolas has found, over the years, that Gimli’s beard is softer than it looks, and today he is using it as a pillow, sprawled over his beloved with his chin resting on his hands on Gimli’s chest. Gimli, propped up on real pillows, is braiding and re-braiding a lock of Legolas’ hair, a common habit of his when they are in private.

“There now,” Gimli says after a while. “You’ve been brooding again, _ghivashel_. What ails you?”

Legolas grins crookedly. “I can never fool you for long, can I, my star? It is the orcs, of course. What else could it be?”

“Do you still worry that they will turn out to be evil after all, then?” Gimli inquires. “I do not think it will happen, but I suppose it is always best to be prepared.” He glances at the axe on its stand beside the bed; it is never more than a few feet from him at the most, even here in the heart of peaceful Mizimir.

“No, it isn’t that,” Legolas says with some amusement. “I have been spending time with Shatauz, you know – she could not tell a lie to save her life. I think she thinks it’s beneath her. If _she_ says that the orcs are here in peace, I shall believe her.” He laughs a little. “I did not think I could ever learn to like an orc’s company – Amdir aside, and she is more like a very short elf in some ways – but Shatauz is refreshingly blunt. It’s oddly pleasant.”

Gimli grins down at his love. “Well, if you are not fretting about the orcs suddenly reverting to their savage past, what _has_ been occupying your mind?”

Legolas sighs. “Thaukha keeps insisting that the hatred my people have had for the orcs is forgive – that there is nothing to forgive, because the orcs were as foul as we imagined them until the Dark was vanquished. But Gimli, I have slain orcs; I have hunted them through the hills like animals, and taken joy in killing them, and never once regretted it until Thaukha stood before me and sang the tale of her people’s slavery. How can I call myself a being of the Light if I took joy in slaughtering _people_ , creatures with parents and history and dreams?”

Gimli hums thoughtfully. “Would you take the same joy if, tomorrow, the orcs turned to their old ways and came against us as enemies?”

“No,” Legolas replies instantly. “I would defend our people, but I would weep even in the midst of battle, and when the day was done, I would bury the bodies of our enemies beside our own dead and mourn them as deeply.”

“And would you defend the orcs, if an army came against them without provocation?”

“I would,” Legolas replies. “They are our allies and – if they take the Empty Lands – our vassals. It would be a blight upon my honor should I stand aside and watch them be overrun; and moreover, I have friends among them, and they have children, and there was never an elf born who could see a child harmed.”

“Well then,” says Gimli, with the air of one making an irrefutable argument, “perhaps you were wrong before, and perhaps you were not; but you are on the side of the orcs _now_ , and you will defend them against all comers; and so you may think of that as a penance if you like, though I do not think Shatauz and Thaukha would thank you for that, but at any rate you are trying to make up for past errors, and that is all any of us can do.”

Legolas gives him a rather startled look. “How is it that you can be so wise, my stone?” he says finally. “I am your elder by more centuries than I care to count, and yet you speak wisdom I could not dream of, and are ever the stone upon which I may rest myself without fear.”

Gimli laughs. “Oh, it is simple enough!” he says merrily. “I merely ask myself, ‘What would Bilbo do?’ – and there is my answer, as easy as swinging an axe. And Bilbo is younger than I am, so we all take advice from one who has only just past his century-mark in the end.”

Legolas cannot help joining his beloved’s laughter. “I can think of few better councilors than Bilbo Baggins of Belegost,” he says at last. “To tell you the truth, my star, I sometimes do the same thing, only in reverse – I ask myself, ‘What would my father do?’ and then I do exactly the opposite!”

Their laughter rings through the house, and Gimli tangles his hands gently in Legolas’ hair and pulls him up for a kiss. “Well, do you continue to do as your father would not, and I shall do as my lord Bilbo _would_ , and we shall go on quite as well as we have been, I am sure,” he concludes; and that is an end to it.

*

“What are you writing?”

“A letter to my cousin,” Laney says shortly, concentrating on the quill in her hands.

“A cousin?” Lariel inquires curiously. “Which one? For I seem to recall you have more cousins than a fir tree has needles.”

Laney looks up and sticks her tongue out at her friend. “Second cousin, or some such, actually,” she admits. “Thain Frodo Baggins, Prince Bilbo’s nephew and ward.”

“I had no idea you were related,” Lariel says with some surprise.

“Oh, all hobbits are related in some manner or other. My mother is a Brandybuck, and so was Frodo’s mother, and so somewhere along the line we are cousins of some sort. I haven’t seen him in years, but he was a pleasant fellow, always sneaking up on Thrain at the oddest moments. Hobbits are very quiet folk – quieter than elves, even, I dare say.”

“And why are you writing to this ‘pleasant fellow’ after all this time? Carrying a torch?”

Laney sighs. “Must you matchmake? Frodo is quite a lot younger than I am, and married very happily, so I hear. No, I am writing because the dwobbits who tend the gardens tell me that they have entirely exhausted their knowledge of plant lore, and the only people who might be able to give the orcs the information they _really_ need to have working farms are the hobbits of the Shire. It’s my hope that Frodo will send some adventurous hobbit or other down to help the orcs.” She shrugs. “It’s a bit of a long shot, I know, but Frodo is Prince Bilbo’s ward, and Prince Bilbo has always been renowned for his kindness and generosity. Hopefully Thain Frodo has inherited those traits.”

Lariel sits down beside her friend. “It’s a kind thought,” she says, all teasing gone. “I hope he _does_ send someone – the orcs are working so hard to learn everything they can, it would be a pity for them to fail for lack of teachers.”

Laney nods, and signs the letter, and seals it carefully. “Hobbits value family, and gardens, and helping people,” she says. “I hope that being given the opportunity to help a family member _by_ gardening will be too appealing to pass up.” She regards the little folded parchment thoughtfully. “Do me a favor, and don’t tell anyone else about this. I don’t want to get anyone’s hopes up and then have Frodo tell me that the only hobbits who ever wanted to leave the Shire were Prince Bilbo and Primrose Axe-Maid, and we’re all out of luck.”

“I won’t, then,” Lariel promises. “But I’ll hope it works, all the same; and I’ve always heard hobbits were a good people. Certainly dwobbits are, and they have to have gotten it somewhere other than the dwarves!”

Laney carefully tucks the letter into a pocket before she bends down, snatches up a handful of dirt, and dusts it swiftly over Lariel’s hair. Lariel squawks in horror and bats at her friend, laughing, and for a few minutes all greater matters are forgotten in favor of joy.


	20. In Which Elladan and Elrohir Reach Mizimir

Elladan and Elrohir are met at the gates to Mirost by a dark-haired elven woman in the greens and browns of a woods-ranger, though she bears no weapon save an eating-dagger at her hip. She welcomes them merrily, naming herself Lariel, right hand to Legolas, and bidding them follow her to the great hall to be greeted by the lords themselves. It is a fine greeting, befitting their status, and neither twin can find fault with her manners.

The city is well laid-out, with wide streets and sturdy houses, though both Elladan and Elrohir note the strange division of the doors, whose tops and bottoms are clearly meant to open separately, and when they reach the great hall, the long feasting tables are low to the ground and surrounded by cushions instead of chairs. Clearly, this is a city built for all its people, not only the elves, and that is something Elladan and Elrohir will have to remember.

Even the thrones at the head of the hall are designed to make both of their inhabitants comfortable, and Elladan and Elrohir make their bows to Legolas and Gimli with ill-concealed smiles. They both remember Gimli as a young dwarf, poking his nose into every corridor in Rivendell, and it is amusing to see him now as a stately lord upon his throne, in such stark contrast to his youthful exuberance.

Legolas and Gimli greet their guests, and Elladan and Elrohir return the proper compliments and formal phrases, but both of them are quite distracted, for to one side of the dais stand the orcs that they have come to observe. There are three of them, arranged in a strange mirror to the elven delegation: two in front, standing shoulder to shoulder, and one in back with the air of ‘bodyguard’ about him as strong as it is around Tiruth.

Elladan and Elrohir have slain orcs ere now. They hunted down the vermin who wounded their mother, and killed every last one of them without remorse. They fought whenever orcs came down from the Misty Mountains, leading the sallies from the sheltered valley to protect the surrounding lands. They know how orcs dress, how they smell, the foul language they use among themselves and the cruel weapons they wield with such terrible skill.

These creatures beside the throne are recognizably orcs. They are short and wiry, and their clothing leaves their shoulders bare to show off the crude tattoos which mark them. They are ugly to elvish eyes, a mockery of every creature of the Light: arms too long for their bodies, nails black as pitch, noses flat and broad and hideous.

But their clothing is clean and well-mended; the smaller one even has embroidery along the hems of her short pants, odd as that seems. They are clean and do not smell; they hold their heads high, not shrinking from the attention paid to them. The taller one meets Elladan’s eyes with something like defiance, standing proudly in the hall as though she has a right to be there; the shorter regards Elrohir with clear curiosity instead of fear. The bodyguard has no readable expression upon his face, not even hatred. None of them are scarred or marked beyond the tattoos upon their shoulders; none of them, not even the bodyguard, bears a single weapon, and that is the most astonishing thing of all: that orcs should stand unarmed in a stronghold of the Light and not even appear scared.

Legolas laughs, and Elrohir realizes with some embarrassment that the brothers have been so busy staring at the orcs that they have been silent for some minutes, ignoring their hosts. He tears his eyes away from their old enemies and bows gracefully.

“My lord Legolas, I must apologize…”

Legolas shakes his head. “No, no, my lords; your distraction is entirely understandable, and if you will swear to do no harm to them, it will be our pleasure to allow you a private audience with our good friends Thaukha and Shatauz of clan Madargon – who have already promised to do no harm to _you_.”

The brothers glance at each other and bow again. “We so promise,” Elladan says, and so it is that they are ushered into a small room, brought food and drink, assured that their bodyguard will be well looked-after, and left alone with two orcs.

Joy.

*

“I am Shatauz, daughter of Kasak, heir to the chieftainship of clan Madargon,” the taller orc introduces herself. “My companion is Thaukha, daughter of Lakhir, apprentice year-keeper of clan Madargon – I think you would say ‘historian,’ but it means more than that to us.”

Elladan’s jaw drops; Elrohir manages to keep his composure, but it’s a near thing. “Orcs…have historians?”

Thaukha sighs. “Must _everyone_ ask that? Of course uruk have historians! Even when we were under the Shadow we were not _completely_ without minds of our own, and everything which remembers wishes to know its own history. Our lives are so short compared to yours that if we did not have historians, in half a dozen generations we would have forgotten the names of trees and grass, forgotten that the Shadow lay upon us at all, and that we would not, could not bear.”

Elladan is still looking as though someone has whacked him with a dead fish, and so it is Elrohir who says, “I would know more about the Shadow and its influence upon you.”

Shatauz grimaces. “Thaukha can sing you the years of our misery in greater detail than I, but the heart of it is thus: the Shadow, which you call by many names, created us; and into us it forged commands, such that we had no choice but to obey it, and it took from our minds many things, that we should not even think of peace, or of joy save in slaughter, or of an end to war save if the Shadow should triumph. Even when you of the light thought it had fallen, still we felt the Shadow upon us, and labored under its weight, and there were those of our people who forgot the songs of our history and became, in truth, the animals that we were called. It takes a strong mind to resist the Shadow, and not every uruk was born with such a mind.”

She pauses, and Elrohir glances at his brother, both of them remembering Isildur, whose mind was overtaken by the Ring so easily; yes, it takes a strong mind to resist the Shadow, and it speaks well of the orcs that even through thousands of years beneath it, they have retained a history. Still, they are orcs. They could be lying.

Shatauz sighs. “For years beyond counting, we were slaves and the Shadow lay heavy on our minds, and we could be nothing but fighters, think of nothing but slaughter and how to perfect it. When the Shadow left us, some of us went mad, and some of us mourned it, but clan Madargon, and many other clans besides, swore each and all that we should never again be warriors; that we would hunt, and farm, and learn to coax green growing things from the earth, and never again be mindless creatures in another’s thrall.”

“You have put aside war, then?” Elrohir asks. He does not believe it for a second.

“War and all that goes with it,” Shatauz agrees. “The only weapons we craft are for hunting; the only tools we make are for gardening. We will not be warriors again.”

Elladan and Elrohir look at each other again. It is a fine fair tale, and not one they would have thought an orc could deliver with a straight face; and clearly the orcs have managed to fool all of the inhabitants of Mirost, and do so for many months now, but Elladan and Elrohir are not so easily taken in.

“We must think on this,” Elladan tells the orcs, who nod, and the brothers leave the room with their thoughts spinning.


	21. Exploring the City

Lariel is waiting for them in the great hall, chatting amiably with a pair of women. Her companions could hardly be more different: one is fair-haired, strongly built, wearing a sword at her hip and the no-nonsense clothing of a warrior of Rohan. The other is dark-haired, clad in a long and beautiful court dress, apparently unarmed, and stunningly beautiful. Lariel is glad to introduce them to her newest guests.

“May I present Lady Theodwyn of Rohan, daughter of King Theodred and Crown Princess Silmarien of Gondor; they are both envoys to Mizimir and we are honored by their presence.”

Elladan grins as they bow. “Lady Theodwyn, it is a privilege; and niece! At last we meet you!”

Silmarien smiles back at both of them. “Mother has told me many tales of you,” she says merrily. “I look forward to discovering their truth for myself!”

“Lies, all of them,” Elrohir says instantly. “We are fine upstanding young elves and would never do _anything_ undignified or inappropriate to our station.”

Silmarien is clearly too well-taught to laugh, but she obviously wants to. “I see,” she agrees instead. “Clearly Mother must have been mistaken, or perhaps she was describing a different pair of twin brothers.”

Elladan sighs dramatically. “Alas, our reputations precede us, brother.”

Silmarien nods. “I look forward to speaking with you further,” she says, “but unfortunately at the moment Theodwyn and I have an appointment with the lords of the city; I am assured that Lady Lariel will look after you as well as she has me.”

Lariel grins. “I have been tasked with doing so by my lord Legolas, it is very true. He suggested you might like a tour of the city, as you have never seen it before.”

“A tour would be much appreciated,” Elrohir agrees, and they leave the young women behind with plans to meet again at dinner.

*

Mirost is larger than Rivendell, and busier. Elves are not prone to moving quickly during their daily routine; there is enough time to do things _properly_ , after all, and as long as one is not in battle, one need not hurry. But the dwobbits of Mirost can only be described as ‘bustling’ about their business. Elladan and Elrohir follow Lariel through the streets with immense curiosity, occasionally stepping out of the way of a particularly oblivious dwobbit intent on his or her course.

Lariel takes them first to the main marketplace, which is mostly empty at the moment. She explains that market day is three times a week, and that since most people eat at the great hall unless they have some pressing reason not to, shopping is not usually an urgent matter. Still, the storefronts that _are_ open are fascinating: several smithies, each specializing in a different metal; a pair of jewelers in clear competition with one another; three separate cloth merchants; four tailors, two each for elves and dwobbits; a handful of carpenters; and a sweetshop with such marvelous confections on display that Elladan and Elrohir cannot help but gape.

Lariel grins at their expressions. “Istar makes the best spun-sugar animals I have ever seen, and his hard candies have to be tasted to be believed. We are fortunate to have him here in Mizimir.”

“Indeed you are,” Elladan agrees, and ducks into the shop, returning with cinnamon-flavored candies for all three of them. They are still sucking happily on their treats when Lariel turns a corner and gestures grandly to an open, grassy square full of children.

There are several dozen of them, elf and dwobbit and orc alike, and even three humans, running about on the grass or sitting quietly in the shade listening to an elf tell a story.

“This is the heart of Mizimir,” Lariel says quietly to the brothers. “Everyone who lives or works around here keeps half an eye on the children, and Oruil and Fennel look after them full-time. Those who work in the mines or the shops leave their children here for the day, so that they need not fret; and elves and dwobbits and orcs all learn together, and become friends, so that the next generation will be strongly bound to one another.”

As they watch, astonished, one of the larger orc children picks up a small dwobbit, who has fallen down and bumped her knee, and perches her on its hip, murmuring soothing things. The dwobbit child is soon grinning brightly again, and wriggles down from her seat to drag the older child over to a group of her friends; soon they are all playing jacks together, the orc child encouraging the smaller children with broad grins and claps of its hands.

Another orc child is running races with a pair of very young elves; a third is concentrating hard on a board game that an older dwobbit is teaching it. All of them are smiling; none of them looks the least bit threatening even to the smallest of the children around them. Several of them are sitting at the elf’s feet, gazing up at her with rapt attention as she relates the story of Beren and Luthien – suitably abridged for children, of course.

Elladan and Elrohir gape. “Orcs _play_?” Elrohir croaks incredulously after a while.

Lariel smiles a little sadly. “We had to teach them how. They’d no concept of doing things for fun, before they came here; everything was for the purpose of survival. The first time we showed one of them a kickball, he looked up at Fennel and said, ‘Is this hunting practice, or do I bury it like a seed?’ She nearly cried.”

Elladan winces. The idea of children growing up not knowing what _games_ are is deeply disturbing. He and his brother have never really thought of orcs as having children before, honestly. If he’d thought about it, which he never did, he might have assumed that they whelped like wargs, five or six at a time, and the resulting offspring would be as dangerous as their parents in mere months.

But these are children, not cubs or whelps or kits. They laugh and play with the dwobbits and elves and see no reason to fear or hate the other races. They are young and innocent, as the twins had never expected orcs to be, and suddenly the very thought of going to their father and telling him, ‘Yes, they are orcs, and should be exterminated,’ is…abhorrent.

It is an odd feeling indeed.

*

They do not have a chance to talk privately with each other until after dinner – a fine meal, though sitting upon cushions instead of chairs takes some getting used to – when they have finally been shown to the house which has been set aside for them. Tiruth has set himself up in the room by the door, of course, leaving them with a windowless and thoroughly defensible room at the back of the house. Elladan flops down on a bed and stares blankly at the ceiling. Elrohir sprawls in a chair beside him.

“I don’t think they were lying,” Elladan says at last. “I did, when we left them, but now…they brought their _children_ here.”

“Good kids, too,” Elrohir agrees. “Did you see the one helping the dwobbit make mud pies? I could hardly tell which was which, they were so muddy.”

“And the adults looked so happy to be gardening,” Elladan adds reluctantly. “I won’t make a judgment on one day’s observation, but I must admit they did not strike me as the same sort of animals which hurt Mother so.”

Elrohir grimaces. “We’ll stay a while,” he says at last. “We need to see them in all weathers. And we should speak to Shatauz and Thaukha again; if they were not lying, I should like to hear some of those history songs they mentioned. Perhaps they will help us understand.”

Elladan sighs, but really, what else is there to say? If he and his brother are correct, the orcs will show their true colors soon enough; and if they are wrong, well…then it would behoove the sons of Elrond of Rivendell to learn all they can of this new race.

Elrohir grins suddenly. “And hey,” he says, “if we stick around a while, we’ll get to see more of Lariel, I’m sure. Pretty, isn’t she?”

Elladan grins back. “Very,” he agrees. “Certainly prettier than _you_ , brother!”

The evening devolves into a pillow fight, and in the morning Elladan has to ask the dwobbit who brings them breakfast for needle and thread to repair their bedclothes.


	22. The Dream

Amdir sits as still as she can with her left arm stretched out over a sturdy table, braced so that the tattoo-maker can work. Shakopa sits on the other side of the table, pinning her arm down gently but implacably. Thaukha sits on Amdir’s right, attempting to distract her from the steady tap-tap-tap of the tattoo-maker’s mallet. Most of the uruk of clan Madargon were tattooed shortly after birth, and do not remember the pain; those few who have chosen to have tattoos added during adulthood are much respected for their fortitude.

“ **You’re doing well,** ” Thaukha assures her. Amdir cannot bear to look at her arm and the black marks taking shape upon it, and the blood welling up. She has never been good with blood. “ **He’s halfway done.** ”

“ **Good,** ” says Amdir through gritted teeth. “ **This is not the most pleasant way I have ever spent a morning.** ” She takes a deep breath and tries to ignore her entire left arm; it is not easy. “ **Tell me of the Dream,** ” she says to Thaukha. “ **You had mentioned it, earlier, but we were distracted before you could finish your thought.** ”

Thaukha nods. The distraction in question had been the irresistible urge to kiss her partner, which amusement had lasted them until it was fully dark and the moon had risen; a thoroughly enjoyable way to spend an evening, indeed. It won’t do for distracting Amdir now – she’d move and mar the tattoo – but the Dream is a good topic of conversation. Amdir should understand the Dream, if she is to become part of a living clan. But every uruk of clan Madargon has grown up understanding the Dream; how best to put it into simple words?

“ **The Dream is a promise from our first mothers,** ” she says at last, “ **that someday, somehow, we should be at peace in a green land. For many years we have taken that to mean that when we die, we go to someplace where there is no war, where there are green fields and growing things and we need never fear the Shadow. Now, though, we have a chance to grasp the Dream in life, as we had never hoped to do; and so that is why clan Madargon is so eager to come down out of the hills into the Empty Lands and learn to farm, and so will other clans be, when they hear of the offer. We shall be living in the Dream, if all goes well.** ”

Amdir grins. “ **That is a fine Dream, indeed,** ” she says. “ **I shall be glad to share it.** ”

*

It is longer than Amdir cares to think about before the tattoo is done. Thaukha has amused her throughout with tales of clan Madargon’s people, their personalities and foibles and small quirks, and Amdir has done her best to listen, but the steady tapping of the mallet invades her thoughts and will probably haunt her dreams.

Thaukha helps her to her rooms and brings her willowbark tea and gets her settled in a comfortable chair. Amdir grins at her weakly.

“ **Painful, but could be worse,** ” she assures the other uruk. Thaukha grins back.

“ **There is more to the Dream that I could not tell you in public,** ” she says after a few minutes. Amdir raises an eyebrow curiously.

“ **In public? It was only Shakopa and the tattoo-maker.** ”

Thaukha nods. “ **This is true. But here is the rest of the Dream, my partner: every uruk is given a name when she is born, a hidden name, a Dream-name. Our mothers give it to us, and even if they die before we are grown old enough to remember, still it is our true name, and when we die and go into the Dream, that name will be ours for the rest of time, instead of the harsh name of the waking world. You have one, I am sure, for you have tattoos, and the Dream-name is given before those are.** ”

Amdir blinks in astonishment. “ **I have another name? A secret name?** ”

Thaukha nods solemnly. “ **Secret, indeed, for none but a true partner may know an uruk’s Dream-name. It must be hidden, you see; we hid them like the Dream itself from the Shadow, for years beyond counting.** ” She takes a deep breath. “ **You have given much to me, my partner, and I wish to give you this: my Dream-name, my true name after death, is Joy.** ”

Amdir gapes, then slowly grins. “ **I am honored by your trust, my partner, and I shall never speak your Dream-name to any other person. Thank you. I only wish I could give you mine.** ”

Thaukha smiles. “ **You could tell me what your name means – it is in the elf-tongue, I assume?** ”

Amdir nods. “ **It means Hope,** ” she replies.

Thaukha leans against her right shoulder gently. “ **Then we shall be Joy and Hope together,** ” she says contentedly, and Amdir forgets her hurting arm and smiles and smiles and smiles.

*

She is too sore for several days to bake – something Thaukha mourns perhaps even more than Amdir herself does – but Shakopa, of all people, saves her from sitting about miserably with nothing to do. He comes to her the morning after her tattooing to ask, very politely, if she will teach him how to cook as elves and dwobbits do. Amdir is only too happy to oblige.

She spends her afternoons for most of two weeks, therefore, in a corner of the kitchen, supervising Shakopa’s slightly clumsy attempts to learn the art of cooking. He is handy with a knife, and takes direction well, and the first time he successfully roasts a chicken and has it come out moist and tasty, well-seasoned and crisp-skinned, he actually beams. Amdir is rather startled to see him smile; she has grown accustomed to his blank expression.

She asks him, after a few days, why he is so eager to learn to cook; it is not a skill she would have expected blank-faced, sober Shakopa to be interested in. He shrugs, and continues slicing onions for a few moments before he responds.

“ **You know that orcs choose mates by their strength and skill, yes?** ”

“ **Thaukha explained as much to me,** ” Amdir replies. Shakopa shrugs again.

“ **Clan Madargon has no one who can cook like the elves and dwobbits do – or did not until you joined us,** ” he explains. “ **I am learning to use the herbs and plants which dwobbits understand. When we come down to the Empty Lands to make them our own, the clan will need people who can cook with the new plants we will grow. If I can do so, I will rise in rank, and I will be a sought-after mate for the women of clan Madargon. I will have many children and be remembered after I go into the Dream.** ”

Amdir blinks at him. It’s a clever plan, actually – instead of going the common route of becoming a great hunter or even studying to become a farmer, Shakopa is learning to use the products of hunting and farming. As she thinks back on what she knows of clan Madargon, she realizes that the most elaborate foods she has seen them produce are stews and spit-roasted meat – nothing like the multi-course, vegetable-heavy meals which dwobbits favor, or the salads and delicately-flavored pastries of the elves.

“ **That’s very clever,** ” she tells him, and Shakopa gives her a slightly smug look.

“ **I am glad you think so,** ” he says, and turns back to his cutting board.


	23. Two Princesses

Theodwyn and Silmarien are sitting side by side, watching the orcs stream down out of the hills into the Empty Lands. Some of the orcs are carrying planks or beams; others have small bundles or cooking pots; several are herding children in front of them. Most have bags of food. It is fairly clear that they have brought everything they own down out of the hills with them; and in the Empty Lands, perhaps an hour’s travel from the Jeweled City, the orcs who had been learning from the dwobbits of Mizimir are already hard at work putting up walls and plowing fields. It is too late into autumn to plant anything, but at least they will be ready when spring comes.

Thaukha and Shatauz and Shakopa and Amdir are all down there, though they will be back for the winter, to continue establishing diplomatic ties; for now, Theodwyn and Silmarien have nothing to do but relax. Theodwyn is already planning to ride out every few days with her troop to see how the orcs are doing; there will be regular caravans of elves and dwobbits bringing the orcs food for the winter to supplement their own supplies, and it is Rohan’s honor to escort those caravans. Silmarien will be spending time with her uncles – when she can tear them away from Lariel, at any rate – and with one of the dwobbits who has been giving her lessons in pottery now and again when they can both find time.

And of course they will be spending time together, the two princesses. They have become good friends, and it is more common than not to find them in the practice ring each morning, sparring gleefully with each other. Their styles are very different, but it is no bad thing to learn from someone so different from oneself. Silmarien, when she relaxes her courtly manners, has her mother’s sly sense of humor and her father’s idealism, and breaks out in occasional moments of optimism very unlike her normal practical outlook. Theodwyn actually enjoys listening to Silmarien talk about court intrigue and the art of using beauty as a weapon – as a shield-maiden with no interest in marriage, she has managed to avoid even the lesser intrigues of Edoras, and she is fascinated by Silmarien’s tales of flirtations and double-crosses and futile attempts to convince King Aragorn not to listen to his wife’s advice. Silmarien, in her turn, is equally fascinated by stories of riding about Rohan with no escort but the warriors under one’s command, of fires which spread across the fields with terrifying speed and helping rebuild the villages in their wake, of stopping to help with the harvest or riding as couriers across the length and width of Rohan’s lands.

And Theodwyn, whose father promised her when she was thirteen that she would never have to marry if she did not choose to do so, so that she might stay a shieldmaiden forever, listens with horrified fascination as Silmarien describes the dozens of suitors she has already had and the immense pressure on her father to see her married off – “As though I were not the Heir!” Silmarien seethes. “I shall marry as and when I please, when I fall in love, as befits a daughter of the elves and of the Dunedain…but it seems that the very thought of my choosing my own partner is incomprehensible to the fools in my father’s court.”

Theodwyn shakes her head. “I do not say political marriage is unheard of among the Rohirrim – certainly my brother married a woman of the nobility, and not a commoner, which would have been frowned upon – but a maiden of Rohan may always choose her own partner, even if she is the king’s daughter. Is it not so in Gondor?”

Silmarien laughs bitterly. “No, not among the noble classes. Nor is it so in Umbar, or so Jonquil tells me – though there it is the mothers who pair their daughters off to men of proper breeding and courage. In Gondor it is the men who sell their daughters to noble sons of wealth and power. Oh, I would make a fine prize for such a man, and many of them have come to my father to ask my hand for their sons! But my father will hear no word of it, and my mother…well. Elves do not marry except for love, and the court is one and all terrified of her. And I am the heir, so I must marry well for Gondor, and whoever I marry might well be king, so that must be considered, and my father has put off many suitors by convincing the council they would make bad kings or consorts. So I have little enough fear that I shall be forced to marry – no one would be able to push such a thing through against the wishes of _both_ of my parents! But I do fear if I should ever have any younger sisters – for what if the arguments which protect me grow weaker for those who are not the Heir?”

Theodwyn winces. “I have no reassurances,” she admits, “save that from what my father and grandfather tell me about King Aragorn, the man who waited twenty years and more for his beloved, whose mother has never remarried because no man could match her husband, will not see his daughters sold off like so much cattle.”

Silmarien smiles. “Well, there’s that, yes. And it is not as though he will not be around for a long time – he and Mother will live another thousand years at least, Mother thinks.”

Theodwyn’s jaw drops. “Really? A _thousand years_ – why, my grandchildren’s grandchildren will not see your parents’ old age!”

Silmarien shrugs. “I shall live as long or longer. Elvish blood will do as much. Lariel is near a thousand years herself, you know, and Legolas not too much less – and my uncles have at least two millennia behind them.” She sighs. “And I am human enough to look at the long years before me, while I wait for the one who will be the match for my heart, and wish for the patience of my mother’s people.”

“Do elves really not have any lovers until their true love comes along?” Theodwyn asks curiously. “I know humans could not live like that – goodness knows the men and women of my troop have had lovers aplenty.”

Silmarien considers this for a while. “Well. Mother actually told me, some time ago, that elves _do_ take lovers, now and again, when they have friends who are so inclined. A thousand years _is_ a long time, after all, even for an elf. But of course I am the Crown Princess of Gondor, and if I were to take a lover, it would be a political problem almost immediately. If it were a man, half the court would think we were about to married – and indeed _he_ might think we were about to be married! – and if it were a woman, the court would have synchronized conniptions.” She shrugs. “It would not be worth it.”

Theodwyn hums. “It occurs to me,” she says very slowly, “that we are not in Gondor at the moment.”

Silmarien blinks at her, and begins to grin. “And you are my very good friend,” she replies.

“And I have absolutely no desire for the throne of Gondor, nor indeed do I desire a permanent relationship with _anyone_ ,” Theodwyn continues, trying to keep her tone solemn, as befits an important transaction, and failing to contain her own grin.

“But might you perhaps be inclined towards a…casual sort of arrangement?” Silmarien inquires, smile widening.

“I might indeed,” Theodwyn says, and flings caution to the winds, leaning towards her friend. Silmarien meets her halfway in a soft kiss.

After a few minutes they pull apart and grin at each other. It is Theodwyn who says what they are both thinking:

“This is going to be _so much fun_.”


	24. Philosophy

Elladan and Elrohir have been invited to wander the White Mountains near the Jeweled City with Lariel; both accept gladly. When they reach the gate into the woods, Lariel is waiting with an elven man in the greens of a woods-ranger, who bows to them. “Brethil, at your service,” he introduces himself.

“He was the one who found the orcs in the first place,” Lariel explains. “I thought you might like to speak with him in private – and the woods are as private as it gets around here!”

Elrohir grins. “I should be glad to speak with you, Brethil,” he says cheerfully. Elladan laughs.

“And I shall keep the lady entertained,” he says, bowing and holding out his arm in a courtly gesture. Lariel laughs delightedly and puts her hand on his arm with exaggerated care as she leads them into the woods.

The White Mountains are beautiful in autumn, all reds and oranges and dappled shadows, and Elrohir relaxes in the comforting surroundings: woods have always been pleasant places, in his experience, and there are not so many small and swiftly moving people as there are in Mizimir. He notices that Brethil, too, relaxes as soon as they are in the woods, walking with his head high and a small smile upon his lips.

They reach a small overlook and Lariel pauses to point into the distance, at a tall tree which towers over its neighbors. “Race you to the oak,” she offers.

“You’re on!” Elladan replies instantly, and leaps after her as she bolts away. Elrohir laughs.

“I should prefer not to ruin so pleasant a day with running,” he admits, and Brethil grins.

“Lariel has always had too much energy,” he offers. “Sometimes I think there must be two of her, for she seems to be in two places at once, she moves so fast!”

Elrohir grins at his companion. “Elladan can be the same way,” he admits. “Glorfindel used to run him about the practice ring for half a day and he would still be bouncing like a child. It was appalling.”

Brethil gestures to a path down from the overlook. “Shall we follow them at a more reasonable pace, my lord?”

“Lead on,” Elrohir agrees. “And call me Elrohir, please. Being called ‘my lord’ always makes me look over my shoulder for my father!”

They walk in silence for a little while, admiring the beautiful foliage and the late berries. Finally Elrohir says, “Tell me of the orcs, then.”

Brethil sighs. “As Lariel told you, I was the first to find them. I was a guard in the Greenwood, as I am here; I had fought orcs when they came down from the Misty Mountains, though not recently – certainly not since the Ring was destroyed, and even before that it seemed to me that the spiders and dark things which came from within the forest were worse than the ragged bands which came down from the mountains.” He shrugs.

“Still, all I knew of orcs before I came to Mizimir was that they were foul creatures, a threat to any civilized people, fit only to be slain.”

Elrohir nods. “So too was my experience.”

Brethil sighs. “I had little to do with Amdir when Gandalf brought her here; what has a woodsman to do with the court and its odd guests? But those who did meet her gossiped, as people will, and all of them said the same: that she was clever and kind, that she would work as hard as anyone pleased, that she had a sharp tongue but was never cruel, that she loved baking and sewing more than any other pastime. I could hardly imagine such a one being an orc – surely there was never an orc born who loved anything but battle?”

He pauses a moment as they cross a small stream. There are muddy streaks along the banks, fresh and wet, and Elrohir glances down at them and chuckles. “My brother has come this way,” he says, and Brethil laughs with him. “But go on – I have not spent much time with Amdir, but many have spoken to me of her, and all say as you do.”

Brethil nods. “And indeed when I met her I found her as she was described, and was astonished. You know that our people do not change quickly, or happily; and so I was content to think that Amdir was an outlier, a strange creature unlike any other orc in the world, for had she not been raised by a wizard? That would be enough to make any creature odd.” He spreads his hands. “Yet the seed of doubt was planted: if one orc could be a creature of peace and gentleness, why not others?

“And so when I found an orcish village, though all my training told me to go and fetch the warriors of the city to do battle, to exterminate the vermin which had infested our mountains, still that seed of doubt remained, and so I stayed and watched.”

He falls silent a moment, and Elrohir inquires quietly, “What did you see?”

“Children,” says Brethil simply, and Elrohir draws in a sharp breath. “Children and their mothers. A teacher and her student. Cooks, and a grindstone being turned by a water wheel. I saw the farmers return from their fields, and all the orcs eat from the same pot, sharing as though all were family. I heard them sing, and it was not a war song – I have heard war songs in my day. I saw _people_ where I had never expected anything but animals, and I could not slay them, though years upon years had taught me to do so.”

They walk in silence for a while. The leaves crunch gently under their feet, and a squirrel scolds them from a tree; from far ahead the sound of laughter drifts back to them on the wind.

“They are not monsters, then,” Elrohir says finally. “I could not believe Shatauz when she told me as much – no, nor Thaukha either, for everyone knows that orcs are foul, and they lie and steal and slay without a thought; that there is no such thing as an orc which has surrendered, because even if they swear every oath in the world, they will still stab you as soon as your back is turned, and so the only good orc is a dead orc. But now you tell me that even before they came to Mirost, before they knew they were observed, before they were even given a _chance_ …still they were not monsters.”

Brethil nods. “I have listened to some of Thaukha’s songs – well, Amdir’s translations of them. They were made to be monsters, and now they have become more than they were made to be. Can our people say as much?”

Elrohir startles, looking at his companion in amazement. “We were made to be _perfect_. How can we become more?”

Brethil shakes his head. “And yet the hobbits can do things with herbs which we never learned. The dwarves have surpassed us at smithing. The humans create things of which we have never dreamed. Even the orcs have lifted themselves out of filth and terror to make of themselves a people who can call themselves a race of the Light. We have made great things, in years long past, but now I wonder if we have not let ourselves rest on our past glories – if we do not think that because a thing _was_ so, it must be so always; for I tell you that if I have learned nothing else from Mizimir, it is that change will come, and not always from any expected direction, and we must learn to change with it, or we shall all perish.”

“That is a harsh saying,” Elrohir replies.

“And I have come from the Greenwood, where our king was mad and cruel because he could not bear to change,” Brethil says, and Elrohir nods.

“I will think on your words,” he says finally, and they walk on in silence to the oak tree.


	25. Race You

Elladan has never had his brother’s patience for philosophy. If something is an enemy, you kill it; if it is a friend, you play with it; if it is neither, you wait to see whether it attacks you or not and then react accordingly. Glorfindel despaired of him ever learning strategy – tactics, Elladan is quite good at, but looking at an entire battlefield and seeing the way things must be, or planning a long campaign, those are not among Elladan’s skills. His brother thinks and plans and discusses philosophy with their father long into the night; Elladan is content with his world, or mostly so, and sees no reason to frustrate himself with abstruse concepts when he could be drinking or dancing or fighting or telling stories.

So when Lariel offers to race, he takes her up on it immediately. He knows the look on his brother’s face: Elrohir is going to spend the entire afternoon interrogating poor Brethil and pondering ethics. A race through an unknown forest is a _vastly_ preferable pastime.

Lariel is agile and knows the terrain, but Elladan is slightly faster on a straight line and has trained with Glorfindel for more years than he cares to think about; they are roughly evenly matched. Lariel has a tiny head start, and Elladan follows the flicking of her hair as he rounds trees and forges through the underbrush.

He is so busy watching for her, in fact, that he misses his step as he leaps a small stream and slips, landing flat on his back in the water with an astonishingly loud splash. He is up again almost instantly, dripping wet and covered in mud, to find Lariel standing a few feet away and laughing fit to burst.

He wrinkles his nose at her – she just laughs harder – and brushes himself down ostentatiously, collecting the mud he gathers from his sleeves until he has enough to flick at her. She squawks like a splashed cat and lunges for the stream, splashing him energetically. For several minutes they forget the race in favor of dumping water and mud on each others’ heads, until Elladan drags himself out of the stream and collapses on the bank, convulsed with laughter. Lariel sinks down next to him, giggling and brushing mud out of her hair.

“You shouldn’t laugh at a guest,” Elladan says when he’s recovered from his laughing fit, sticking his tongue out at Lariel.

“Quite right,” Lariel agrees. “I never claimed to be a _proper_ elven lady! I only got this job because no one else wanted to put up with the lovebirds!”

Elladan falls over laughing. He has seen Legolas and Gimli frequently in the last weeks, and they are never more than a few feet from each other, and are always sending each other terrifyingly adorable glances and leaning against each other and calling each other by pet names. It’s honestly a little hard to take in large doses.

“Then since you’re not a _proper_ elven lady, you won’t mind if I do _this_ ,” he retorts, and leaps to his feet, sprinting towards the oak tree in the distance. Lariel follows him nearly as quickly, laughing and swearing at him.

*

“You both look like drowned rats,” Elrohir notes when he and Brethil meander up the oak tree, quite a while after Elladan and Lariel reached it and sank down giggling at its feet.

Elladan grins up at his brother. “I won, though!”

“By an inch of reach,” Lariel grumbles cheerfully. “And you cheated. I demand a rematch!”

“Tomorrow!” Elladan agrees instantly.

Elrohir sighs and glances at Brethil. “I don’t suppose we could continue our conversation tomorrow, also? It would save me from following this madman around.”

“Anything to help a friend,” Brethil agrees solemnly, and carefully does not laugh at the twins’ antics.

*

“She’s such _fun_ ,” Elladan says that evening, sprawling back on the bed and throwing his arms out. “She has a beautiful laugh, too!”

“And she covered you in mud,” Elrohir observes drily. “I think I like her.”

“Oh, good… _hey_!” Elladan throws a pillow across the room at his brother, who catches it easily. “Anyhow, how did your talk with Brethil go?”

“Well, I think,” Elrohir says, tucking the pillow behind his head as he leans back against the wall. “I learned a lot, and I need to think about it. He had some really fascinating ideas, things I’d never even considered before.”

“Ooo,” Elladan teases gently. “Please tell me you’re not going to retreat into a library and not come out for months again.”

“Brat. No, I’m probably going to go down to the new orc village at some point this winter, spend a few days among them, maybe a few weeks. We’ve only met Thaukha and Shatauz – and Shakopa and Amdir, but he doesn’t speak and she’s wizard-raised – and I want to see orcs in their…um. Their homes, I suppose. How they act when they aren’t guests in a city of elves.”

“Makes sense. I’ll come, of course. You need someone to watch your back.”

“What, and leave dear Lariel behind?”

Elladan sticks out his tongue. “We’re elves. What’s a few weeks parting to us? Anyhow, it’s not as though we’ve decided to court or anything – I’ve only known her for a few days! I just like spending time with her.”

Elrohir nods. “I _am_ glad of that, brother; and I’ll not tease you in front of her. Have fun running about in the woods, and I shall have fun speaking with orcs and philosophers, and we shall both have a pleasant winter.”

“A fine plan,” Elladan agrees.

*

Tiruth has seen the orcs walking to and fro in the city as though they own it, as though they have a _right_ to be in a place where civilized people live, as though they are not vermin who ought to have been exterminated, not brought into the city and made much of. The twins may think that orcs are not so bad, may even be taken in by the insane people of this insane city – elves and dwobbits living together? Who ever heard of such a thing? Elves do not live with short-lived folk! – but Tiruth knows better.

He will protect his lady’s sons, even if they do not see the danger. He keeps his weapons sharp and his armor on, and watches the orcs go to and fro, and waits for them to show their true colors.


	26. Hobbits!

Laney blinks again at the letter in her hands, then glances at the date at the top of the paper and leaps to her feet. If they sent the letter just before they left, and traveled at a normal pace, then they will arrive within the week!

Lariel, across their small office, looks up in confusion. “What has you all of a flurry?”

“Thain Baggins and his husband and wife are on their way!” Laney replies.

“What, really?” Lariel rises and takes the letter from Laney. “Oh, wonderful!”

“Well, yes,” Laney admits, “but that means we have to find more guest room – for a sitting monarch, too, not just a princess!”

“Aren’t there ten Thains?”

“Yes, but they are all equals – it’s hard to explain. Treat him like a great lord, I suppose; or don’t, because hobbits don’t stand on ceremony at all. I’m to the kitchens: we’ll need a feast to welcome them.”

Lariel laughs. “How else would one welcome hobbits?” she asks merrily, and then, as Laney leaves the room, “Wait, husband _and_ wife?”

*

Laney greets Frodo and Sam and Rosie at the gates to the city, with half a dozen other dwobbits accompanying her – all cousins, in one way or another, of their newest guests.   
Laney attempts, initially, to retain the sort of diplomatic courtesy which is proper when greeting one of the rulers of a polity, but the attempt is ruined fairly quickly.

She bows to Frodo. “Thain Baggins, be welcome to Mizimaguthol,” she says solemnly.

And Frodo steps forward and flings his arms around her, crying, “Laney! You look wonderful; the south agrees with you marvelously. What is this ‘Thain Baggins’ nonsense? Call me Frodo, as you used to when I was a fauntling in Belegost.”

Lariel, watching from some little distance, stifles a giggle unsuccessfully. Laney sighs and gives in.

“Frodo, then; and Samwise, and Rosie; be welcome in Mizimir. Come; Legolas and Gimli are eager to see you, and of course there is dinner prepared.”

“Lovely; I’m famished,” Frodo replies cheerfully, and turns to greet the other dwobbits with endless good cheer. Sam and Rosie are staring around wide-eyed, with grins as broad as their faces. Lariel leaves them to their mirth and goes to warn her lords that their newest guests have definitely arrived.

Mizimir may never be the same.

*

“My thanks for the delightful dinner,” Frodo says some hours later, grinning across the hall at Sam and Rosie coaxing a pair of elven princes into trying out a hobbit jig, “but I rather thought there were orcs in Mizimir who we had come to aid?”

Legolas smiles down at him. “There are – or rather, there will be. Perhaps you saw their village as you approached? They are in the final stages of construction. Many of the clan will be returning to Mizimir over the winter, to learn from you and from us.”

Frodo nods. “Well, then. We shall be glad to help them however we can. Sam, especially, is eager to share his knowledge. By the time he’s done, every one of them will have a prizewinning garden, see if they don’t!”

Gimli laughs. “And prizewinning homebrew, too! I remember the harvest festivals of the Shire with great affection and a complete lack of clarity.”

Legolas laughs at him.

“But – I must ask,” Gimli continues, giving his beloved a slightly offended look, “how is it that we are so fortunate as to have the Thain Baggins and his spouses here in Mizimir? We never expected such a generous response from the Shire as to send a Thain so far south.”

Frodo shrugs. “Well, it’s practically a tradition now, for the Thains of Baggins to go off and have adventures. I’m simply following in Uncle’s footsteps!” Gimli and Legolas grin. “But, honestly…Sam said he wanted to see more of the world. So here we are.” He grins across the hall again, to where Sam is now twirling Rosie, both of them laughing gleefully. “Rosie and I, we’d do anything for Sam. Coming to visit friends and relatives in their new city? What sort of hardship’s that?”

“And you’re not worried about the orcs?” Legolas inquires delicately.

Frodo shrugs. “Laney would never have asked for hobbits to come down from the Shire if she thought we’d be in any danger. I’m sure we’ll be great friends come spring.”

“That simple?” Legolas says incredulously. “We have been coaxing and cajoling the princes and princesses of every realm within riding distance into giving orcs half a chance, and you who have never even seen an orc proclaim friendship already?”

“I am a hobbit, not a dwarf or an elf or a Man,” Frodo replies evenly. “We do not fight unless we are pressed to it; we do not hate until the last extremity. If my cousin writes to me and says, ‘We have been wrong about the orcs; they wish to learn the arts and sciences of which hobbits are the masters; they wish to be peaceful and productive and live in harmony with their neighbors, even as hobbits do’ – I do not doubt her. I do not tear the letter into pieces simply because it mentions an old enemy, because it means that I have been wrong all my life in thinking that orcs are a danger and a menace in the world. I am a hobbit. Hobbits strive for peace, for harmony, for family and friendship above all else.” He shrugs again. “So here we are.”

Legolas glances at Gimli. “I am suddenly reminded, Thain Baggins, that you were raised by Bilbo Baggins. You remind me of him strongly.”

“Thank you,” Frodo replies. “I am very flattered; my Uncle is all I could possibly strive to be.”

And then Sam and Rosie come over and drag Frodo off to the dance floor, and for the rest of the evening Legolas and Gimli sit side by side, leaning against each other so that they do not fall over from laughing at the sight of Elladan and Elrohir and Lariel _completely failing_ to learn hobbit jigs.

“I do not know how they can move their feet that quickly,” Gimli comments at one point.

“I am not convinced it is truly happening,” Legolas confesses. “Perhaps it is some form of illusion? Or perhaps hobbit moonshine confers magical powers which express themselves in dancing and philosophy.”

“We should not research this,” Gimli says ruefully. “Not after last time I tasted the stuff.”

Legolas winces. “You are entirely correct. Although…can you imagine Lord Elrond drunk?”

Gimli has to muffle himself with his beard for a while. Finally he raises his head. “That was _uncalled for_. I shall never remove the image from my mind. You are cruel, _ghivashel_.”

“Oh, I shall replace it with better later,” Legolas promises, and kindly does not comment when Gimli’s ears go quite red.


	27. How Do Hobbits Work?

“Mother sends her regards, and asks that you come to visit her if it is convenient, perhaps in the spring,” Silmarien says, sitting down across from Elladan and Elrohir at the breakfast table. Somehow she manages to make sitting on a cushion look elegant.

“Our regards to her,” Elrohir replies, “and we shall certainly visit if we can find the time. How is the city of Men treating our little sister?”

“Mother is quite happy,” Silmarien replies, pulling the platter of ham and sausage towards her plate. “She writes that my brothers have been terrorizing the palace in my absence.”

“Take after their father, do they?” Elladan asks merrily. “Oh, the stories we could tell you about your father when he was young.”

Silmarien grins. “I should like to hear them,” she says. “He is so dignified most of the time – was he always so?”

Elladan and Elrohir laugh. “No, indeed,” Elladan says, leaning forward conspiratorially. “For instance, there were the years he spent following your mother around like a woeful puppy…”

*

Sam and Rosie are a little taken aback by their first sight of orcs, some two weeks after their arrival when half the clan returns to Mizimir to spend the winter. They have dreadfully long arms for their height, and their legs are too short, and their skin tone is just _wrong_ , almost grey. But they are smiling, and they are closer to the proper height than all the dreadfully tall elves, and they have children on their hips or crowding about their legs, so Sam and Rosie smile back and introduce themselves.

The orcs are fascinated by them. Sam and Rosie spend whole days surrounded by their new acquaintances, all of whom have endless questions: Tell us about gardening. What about soil enrichment? How do hobbit families work? What is a Thain? Tell us about potatoes, about carrots, about lettuce. Why shouldn’t I plant lots of zucchini? Tell us about hobbit midwives. What are these teas we have been hearing so much about from the elves?

And, most common and enthusiastic of all: Tell us about Bilbo Baggins, who destroyed the Shadow!

Sam and Rosie take to spending every afternoon in the great hall, surrounded by orcs, fielding questions. Rosie takes notes, like the sensible woman she is, and tells the orcs that she’ll give the notes to them when the hobbits leave, so that even if something is forgotten, there will be a record. Sam promises that they will be spending nearly a year in Mizimir, so that he can help with planting and tending and harvesting of the first year’s crops – upon which the orcs promise to build a house in their new village especially for the hobbits. Sam and Rosie protest, of course, that they could not accept such a gift, but the orcs insist, and so plans are made for the hobbits to move to the village as soon as the roads are passable in spring.

In all, it is a pleasant way to spend the early winter days.

*

Frodo spends his days closeted with the princes and princesses of three polities, with the lords of Mizimir and the heirs-apparent to the leadership of the orcs. Remarkable company, even for a Thain raised by the King and Prince Consort of Belegost beside their heir. Really, though, the most uncomfortable part is the way people keep looking at him oddly and whispering “Baggins” to each other behind his back, as though being Bilbo Baggins’ heir were some great accomplishment on his part instead of a mark of his uncle’s kindness and good nature.

Still, for the most part when they speak to him directly, they ask questions which have nothing to do with his famous uncle, so he tries not to mind the whispers.

“So there are ten Thains in the Shire,” Thaukha says slowly, clearly trying to line the information up properly in her head, “which are _not_ like the lords of Mizimir or the kings of Gondor and Rohan.”

“Correct,” Frodo confirms. “Each Thain oversees his extended family…mine are the Bagginses, obviously…and also their tenth of the Shire and everyone who lives in that area, even if they are not of the family. So I oversee the Gamgees and the Cottons and the Sackvilles and so on, because they all live on Baggins land.”

“And the Thains come together and discuss how to run the Shire as a whole?”

Frodo nods. “We each are responsible for stockpiling a certain amount of food, and for overseeing our own people, and dealing with small issues. We rotate the responsibility of sending food to Belegost yearly, so no one Thainship is unduly impacted by it; and our stockpiles are sufficient food to feed everyone in the Thainship for three years on hard rations, by law. We come together to form a court if anything one Thain cannot deal with arises, but that is rare. And we come together to discuss any political negotiations with outside forces.” He spreads his hands. “For instance, when my uncle Bilbo was sent to Erebor to marry Thorin, that was a decision made by all the Thains in concert, to accept the alliance of the dwarves and send someone to a political marriage.”

“But why are no Thains raised above the others?” Shatauz inquires. “What if five think one thing and five the other?”

Frodo shrugs. “Hobbits…are taught not to fight, you see. We are taught to find ways to get along, to cooperate with each other, to help our neighbors and strangers alike. It is rare indeed for the Thains to all disagree so strongly on something that no compromise can be reached – the last instance I know of was more than three hundred years ago, and was linked to a family feud which has since been dealt with.” He pauses, and thinks a minute. “If there _is_ a disagreement, Thain Took often has the final word, but that is simply because the Took Thain tends to be a particularly intelligent and far-sighted hobbit. The Tooks have many children to choose from, after all, to become the next heir; whereas the Chubbs, for instance, simply take the last Thain’s eldest son whether or not he is a wise choice. The Bagginses split the difference: the new Thain is usually a son of the old Thain, but unless there is only one, the Thain chooses the best suited of all his sons.”

Shatauz nods. “The chief of each clan chooses the best suited of her daughters to be the next chief…well, if all goes well, she does. There have been times when the chief adopted her killer with her dying breath.” She shrugs as the others in the room gape at her. Thaukha nods.

“A council of chiefs seems a wise idea,” Shatauz continues, “or it will be when other clans begin to move out of the mountains. Having one chief for all the clans would end badly – for how can a chief of Madargon blood be fair to the Ujak clan, or one who has learned to take care of the Varazadi make good decisions for all the clans together? No – we shall have a council of chiefs, as the hobbits do their Thains, and each shall tend to their own clan as is proper.”

Legolas nods. “And the council of chiefs shall answer to us, for we of Mizimir will stand surety for you to the other nations of Middle-Earth.”

Shatauz nods to him regally. “That is only fair,” she agrees. “Even as the hobbits send food to Belegost for protection, so we will send food to Mizimir, when we have learned to grow enough to feed us all, in return for your protection.”

They grin at each other across the table. Gimli nods sharply.

“Come to think of it, it would be no bad idea for us to have a council of some sort in Mizimir,” he says. “Goodness knows dwobbits and elves have different needs, and now we’ve added orcs – pardon me, uruk – to the mix, and for all I know we’ll have Men here someday too. ‘Twould be good to have those about us who can advise us as to each people’s needs.”

“Now that,” Legolas replies thoughtfully, “is no bad idea at all.”


	28. Midwinter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: violence

“Midwinter Festival!” Rosie says excitedly. “Laney says there will be snow candy – none of the uruk have ever had that before, and I want to see their expressions when they try it!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Frodo replies, batting at her hands as she tries to chivvy him along. “Where’s Sam?”

“He promised to help out with the children – I think he’s telling the stories of Bilbo Baggins the Ring-bearer in the great hall. All the uruk children will be there.” Rosie grins: Sam is wonderful with children, and after this adventure is over, she is definitely looking forward to giving him some of his own to dote upon.

*

Sam grins at the uruk children as they file into the hall. “Are you going to tell us about the great hero, Mister Gamgee?” the eldest inquires politely.

“That I am,” he assures them. “Come and sit down, littlest in front now, there’s enough cushions for everyone. Now, does everyone know who the Dark Lord Sauron was?”

“He was the Shadow,” squeaks one of the littlest uruk children, clutching at the child next to her in fear. “He was the one who made us evil.”

“That’s right,” Sam tells her approvingly, smiling. “Now, he was a very cowardly being, and he was afraid that someone would manage to overthrow him. He was especially afraid of Men and of elves, because Men and elves were always trying to fight against him; and he was even afraid of dwarves, because when the great battles came, the dwarves would ally with the elves against him, even though they did not like the elves at all. But do you know who he was not afraid of at all?”

An uruk child nods eagerly. “The hobbits!”

“That’s right: the hobbits. And he should have been afraid of one hobbit in particular: Bilbo Baggins.”

The uruk children cheer and lean forward as Sam clears his throat and starts to sing.

“Barefoot from Belegost came Bilbo Ringbearer  
Heartsick and homesick but deadly determined  
The villain to vanquish who cursed his king’s mind…”

*

“Oh, come on, Tiruth; it’s Midwinter Festival!” Elladan says. “You’ve hardly left the house since we got here – surely you’re getting tired of the same four walls! Come with us; have some fun for once!”

Tiruth glares at his lady’s sons, but he stands and reaches for his sword. A Festival would be a good time for a covert attack, after all, and the orcs might decide to try to knife one of the boys in the crowds.

“No sword,” Elrohir says from the doorway. “This is a peaceful gathering.”

Tiruth puts it down reluctantly and follows the boys out of the house. At least he still has his knives hidden under his clothes – he never goes anywhere without them. He will protect his lady’s sons no matter what.

*

The center square of Mizimir is full of laughing people. Down the hill there is a skating rink set up, on a small pond, with elves soaring to and fro and dwobbits laughing and applauding, and a few brave uruk taking tentative steps. There are stalls providing mulled cider and apple fritters and meat pasties and half a dozen kinds of sweets, and uruk and dwobbits and elves milling between them, ducking in and out of storefronts and lingering in front of the small stage, where a pair of dwobbits are juggling axes and metal spheres in gloved hands.

Elladan grins, tugging his brother through the crowd to where Lariel and Laney are standing watching the show. Brethil waves at them from behind the counter of a stall of venison sausages, and Elrohir pulls away from his brother to go collect a handful of steaming pasties and sausages and exchange cheerful greetings with Brethil.

Tiruth, glowering, tries to stay within a few feet of the boys, but the crowd is large and everyone is wearing bulky coats; it is impossible to keep from bumping into people now and again, and a dwobbit nearly knocks him over. She steadies him and apologizes instantly, but he glares at her and turns to forge through the crowd to his wards. Midwinter Festival indeed! A foolish opportunity for the orcs to kill everyone, more like. And Tiruth has always hated crowds – far too many people in one place, far too many things happening in every direction, to keep track of everything.

The boys have gotten away from him again, and Tiruth pushes his way further into the crowd. Someone else knocks into him, and he whirls furiously. The person cowers away from him – no. No, the _orc_ cowers away from him, filthy beast, it probably meant to knife him in the back while he was distracted, probably wanted to trip him up so it could kill him while he was lying in the cold mud, and before he quite know what he is doing his knife is in his hand and there is an enemy in front of him, the enemy which hurt his lady, beautiful Celebrian, and he must kill it before it reaches the boys, before it shows its true colors, before another elf lies wounded at the hands of monsters like this.

*

Laney hears the scream and whirls from where she is talking to Lariel to see Tiruth, the princes’ bodyguard who never comes out of their house, draw a knife and cut down an uruk woman, there in the middle of the crowd in the middle of Midwinter Festival. He stands over her grinning, like he has just done a wonderful thing, and the crowd presses away from him, uruk and dwobbit alike screaming in fear and horror, and Laney sees red.

Three swift steps bring her to the side of the – the _murderer_ – and she reaches up and knots a hand in his loose collar and brings him down into range of a single, furious punch.

Tiruth goes down like a felled ox into the blood and mud of the central square, and Laney drops his collar and turns to kneel beside the uruk woman, but it is clearly too late. She was dead before she hit the ground, clearly, head half-severed from her body, and Laney, who has never seen war, gags and turns away so that she will not dishonor the dead woman by retching all over her body.

*

It is Lariel who orders Tiruth bound and taken to one of the rooms off the great hall, there to be guarded until Legolas and Gimli can deal with him; Lariel who sends people running for a stretcher and who puts her own cloak, gently, over the body of the dead uruk. Elladan and Elrohir make no objections to the arrest of their bodyguard; on the contrary, they volunteer to bear the stretcher, and carry their sad burden away in the middle of a small crowd of uruk.

Lariel watches them go, face drawn and miserable, one hand resting on Laney’s shoulder; and when the uruk funeral party is out of sight, she looks down at her friend and sighs.

“Let us go and tell the lords what has befallen, then,” she says sadly. “And bandage your knuckles.”

Laney shakes her head. “I need no bandages,” she replies. “Dwobbit hands are harder than elven heads. What I need is to see that murderer brought to justice, and that I’ll have.”

“Aye,” Lariel agrees. “That we’ll have. Let it never be that any under our lords’ purview should be slain so callously, and no punishment given. Come; let justice be done.”


	29. The Trial

There has never been need for a trial in Mizimir before. The few instances of crime which have occurred before now – petty theft, occasionally an argument which devolves into a brawl – have been put to rest easily enough by Lariel or Laney or even the neighbors of the people involved. Neither dwobbits nor elves are prone to foolish acts, or at least so the people of Mizimir had assumed until very recently.

Legolas and Gimli, fetched from the skating rink to preside over the trial, are appalled at the act of violence done in their city, and immensely proud of their city’s response. Gimli claps Laney on the shoulder. “A fine punch, to lay him out with one blow,” he tells her softly. Laney shrugs.

“It needed to be done,” she says. “And it won’t bring that poor uruk back to life.”

“No more it will,” Thaukha says as she and Shatauz enter the room. “But she is Dreaming now; let us not mourn one who is at peace.”

Shatauz nods. “We have come to ask what punishment you will set upon the one who slew our clanmate, lords of Mizimir.”

Legolas and Gimli glance at each other. “We’re not sure,” Gimli says at last. “This problem has not arisen before now.”

Shatauz gestures sharply. “Well, then, Thaukha and I have something to say to that…”

*

Tiruth’s head hurts abominably, and there is an especially sore spot all along the left side of his jaw, where that appalling dwobbit’s fist connected. He is, he discovers, bound hand and foot and tied tightly to a chair, which has been placed to one side in the great hall of Mizimir. The hall is packed; Legolas and Gimli are seated on their thrones, and Tiruth is rather startled by the looks of cold fury which both of them direct towards him as he raises his head.

Elladan and Elrohir are standing near the thrones. For just a moment, Tiruth thinks that they will plead his case before the lords of the city – surely, of all people, Celebrian’s sons will understand how _wrong_ it is for orcs to pretend they are not evil? – but the twin glares they are giving him remove that hope immediately.

There is a large crowd gathered in the hall, all murmuring and whispering to each other; they fall silent when Legolas raises his hand. Legolas stands.

“Tiruth of Rivendell,” he says into the waiting silence, “you are brought before us on the charge of murdering, without provocation or warning, the uruk woman Skessa. Your liege lords, Elladan and Elrohir of Rivendell, have given leave for this court to try you and to sentence you as we see fit, as your actions have been a breach of hospitality between our peoples, and were not sanctioned by your lords.” He pauses, and Tiruth loses the last of his hope that Celebrian’s sons will speak for him: a breach of hospitality is a serious thing, and the boys will not want to harm relations between Mirost and Rivendell.

“Explain yourself,” Legolas finishes, coldly. “What _possible_ reason could you have for striking down an unarmed woman?”

“She was nothing but an orc,” Tiruth spits. “Why do you pretend that they are anything but animals? They will betray you all as soon as the time seems right to them; the one I slew is one that will not come snarling over your walls some night to slay you in your beds.” He falls silent – what more is there to say?

Legolas turns to look, not at Tiruth, but at Thaukha and Shatauz, who have stepped out from the crowd. Shatauz bows slightly to him and turns to Tiruth.

“She was not ‘nothing but an orc,’” she says calmly. “She was a mother.”

And from the crowd behind her step three tiny orcs, the tallest – who barely comes to Tiruth’s knee – carrying the smallest. Tiruth stares at them, trying to tell himself that they are only orcish whelps, that they will grow into monsters, that they are nothing but animals, but then the middle child, an appallingly tiny thing, looks up at Shatauz and says, quietly, “Is this the one who took our mother from us?”

There is nothing but grief in its voice – no hatred, no cruelty – only the grief of a child which has lost its parent, the same grief he has seen in the eyes and heard in the voices of every elven child whose parent has died or gone West in sorrow, the same grief he has seen in Celebrian’s sons, and something in Tiruth’s chest cracks open, and he sags against the ropes holding him to the chair in sudden, blinding agony. _He_ has done this. _He_ has made this grief, has brought this sorrow to a _child_ – a child, and he is an elf. He has betrayed his people and everything they believe.

“Yes,” says Shatauz to the child, and then, louder, to the assembled crowd and the lords of Mizimir on their thrones, “We have a law, we uruk, which applies to this case.”

“Tell the court of it, then,” Legolas invites.

“It is the law of the uruk, that if one should slay a mother whose children are too young to fend for themselves, that in order that the clan not be diminished by the loss of its children as well as one of its mothers, the murderer shall be assigned, from that day forward, to care for the children of the dead mother as though they were her own, to raise them to adulthood, and in all ways to behave to them as a parent would.”

Tiruth gapes at her. Legolas inquires, “Is it not dangerous to give the children of a murdered mother to their mother’s murderer? Would not the children then be threatened?”

Shatauz shakes her head. “If the children should die under the care of their new guardian, then it is clear that the new guardian is unfit to be a member of the clan, and she is slain; thus we protect our mothers and our children, who are the treasures of our clan.”

The crowd murmurs eagerly to each other. Uruk justice is harsh, but even Tiruth, staring blankly at the uruk children, can see that it is fair. Still…

“You would trust me with your children?” he asks harshly. “You would give them to _me_ to raise – to an elf who hates orcs with every fiber of his being?”

Shatauz meets his eyes calmly. “You will live with the uruk,” she says, voice cold and clear. “You will work with the uruk. You will raise Skessa’s children in the uruk manner, you will see to it that they are fed and clothed and kept safe, that they learn skills which will keep them alive in adulthood, that they have shelter. You will do all of this, or by the will of the clan and the word of the lords of Mizimir, you will be slain. Death is a hard motivator, but the uruk have found that it is very effective. We do not care if you _want_ to raise Skessa’s children. We only care that you do it, and do it well; and if you do not, the law is clear.” She shrugs. “That is the end of it.”

Legolas nods. “It is the decision of the lords of Mirost that, in a matter concerning uruk, uruk law takes precedence; therefore, we do sentence Tiruth of Rivendell to care for the minor children of Skessa of clan Madargon until they reach their majority, and to do so to the full extent of his abilities; and that this duty supersedes all other duties and responsibilities which Tiruth of Rivendell may have.” He turns to look squarely at Tiruth. “Do you understand this sentence?”

Tiruth bows his head. “I understand and will obey,” he says, and makes a silent vow: he may still hate orcs, he may never learn to stop hating orcs, but he will raise these children to adulthood, and he will do it well. There was never an elf born who could bear to harm a child.


	30. Law and Custom

“It is very clear to me,” Legolas tells the group assembled in a small room off of the great hall, “that we can put off creating a council of races and a system of common laws no longer.”

Gimli, beside him, nods firmly. “What if this recent disaster had not happened in a public place, with witnesses on every side? I do not know that we need a force of Shirriffs, as the Shire has, but we need _some_ method of keeping many people from many races living peacefully alongside each other.”

Frodo spreads his hands. “Clearly the Shire’s system of Thains will not do for you – you are the lords of this city, and no one would wish for you to step down, that is clear enough. But a council of some sort, to advise you and to make smaller decisions, to present you with ideas and do the busywork, would certainly be wise. Though to be sure I will not be on it, so I am not quite certain why I am here!”

“To advise us on how to _form_ such a council,” Gimli says. “It will be good to have such clear eyes as yours watching us.”

Frodo rubs his chin. “Hm. Well. I should recommend Laney and Lariel, of course, since they already know how the city works; and of course you will need at least one uruk, and if more clans come out of the mountains, you may need a representative of each clan, or the uruk may need to decide on a few people to represent all of them. I do not know how that would work.” He glances over at Thaukha and Shatauz and Amdir, who shrug almost in unison.

“For now,” Shatauz says, “it would make sense for Thaukha and myself to sit on this council; but as time goes on, that may change. We will discuss it with the clan.”

Frodo nods at them. “Sensible. You will not be able to decide everything today, I don’t think – the Shire wasn’t plowed in a day, and all that. But I think you need more people from Mizimir, at least one more elf and one more dwobbit. Too small a group is as bad as too large.”

Laney says, slowly, “Shatauz said she would discuss matters with her clan. What if we did the same with all of Mizimir? We could ask everyone to…to vote on someone they felt would be a good representative, and then the top two or three from each race would be placed on the council.”

Legolas cocks his head curiously. “That makes a certain amount of sense,” he agrees at last. “Goodness knows choosing advisors based only on how much they agree with him has done _nothing_ for my father!”

“Would that _work_?” Lariel inquires. “I’ve never heard of such a procedure used for anything so important – usually the lords and kings choose their own advisors, after all.”

“Mizimir is a city of new things,” Gimli replies. “We will try it, and see if it works – and if it doesn’t, we shall fall back on old ways again.”

“Done,” Legolas agrees. “We will announce the experiment tomorrow.”

*

“So you are all three married?” Thaukha inquires over dinner.

Frodo nods. “It’s not common among hobbits, but we couldn’t bear to choose – having Sam without Rosie, or Rosie without Sam, would have just been _wrong_ , and they felt the same about me.”

Thaukha shrugs. “It is more sensible than most of the pairings I see among other races. At least Rosie will have two sires for her children.”

Frodo gives her a rather odd look. “Hobbits…well, we do care about having children; it’s quite odd not to, though there are those who aren’t inclined towards the opposite sex, like Uncle. They often end up adopting children, though. And we don’t have perfect soul-mates like elves and dwarves do, either. But we do marry for love, you know, not for children.”

Thaukha shakes her head. “It’s very strange to us, you realize, that none of the other races seem to care as much about having children as we do. Oh, certainly you care _for_ children – we are grateful to the caregivers who have been watching the clan’s children, and our children grow marvelously under their guidance – but there are so many people in Mizimir who, for reasons we cannot quite understand, will _never_ bear or sire children.”

“I know uruk can love,” Frodo replies. “Can you not imagine being so in love with someone that you never wanted to…to bear children by anyone else?”

Thaukha frowns. “Love has nothing to do with it,” she says. “I adore Amdir, but what has that to do with mating? I would not share my house and raise my children with any other; she knows that about me which no one but my mother also knows. But she cannot sire children upon me, and even if she could, the blood of the clan would be weakened if I had children by only one mate. There are few enough of us as it is; if our blood ran weak, the clan would die.”

“But…doesn’t it _bother_ you? To share your bed with people other than Amdir?”

Thaukha shakes her head firmly. “That is _different_ , I tell you.” She pauses, and gestures vaguely, clearly trying to find words to explain what she has been raised knowing. “Children are one’s responsibility to the _clan_ , Frodo. A partner is a…a privilege, something for oneself, but one’s life and children and blood belong to the clan. I am of a good bloodline; my mothers’ mothers’ names are still remembered by Madargon. I am the year-keeper to be, which is a valuable skill and shows I am intelligent and have a strong memory. It is my responsibility to bear children with strong blood and a chance at my intelligence, and so I must choose mates who are clever and strong-blooded and useful to the clan.” She spreads her hands wide. “I shall never understand why elves and dwobbits – and hobbits, apparently! – insist that mating and partnering are the same thing. Is your heart in your bed?”

Frodo blushes crimson. “No,” he replies eventually, voice even though his ears are still red. “I suppose for us it is…well, you said you had shared something with Amdir that you have never shared with anyone else. For us, that is what sharing a bed is like.” He shrugs. “And there are many elves and dwarves and hobbits, you know. We need not fret for the safety of our people, if one or two of us choose never to have children.”

“Then someday I hope we shall reach such security,” Thaukha says solemnly.

Frodo adds, consideringly, “Have you spoken to Jonquil about this, by any chance? I know that Men do not have single loves, the way elves and dwarves do, and do not hold fidelity as…strongly as hobbits do. King Aragorn’s famous adoration of his wife notwithstanding.”

“It has not arisen,” Thaukha replies, “but I shall mention it to him when next we speak.” She grins. “Perhaps uruk are most like Men; certainly we are not much like elves or dwobbits, and we have much to learn before we may consider ourselves to be anything like hobbits.”

“Do you want to be like hobbits, then?” Frodo asks, with some surprise. “I know you are very proud of your clan and your people.”

“So I am, and so I shall continue to be,” Thaukha assures him. “I do not want my people to stop being uruk. But I _do_ want my people to be numerous, prosperous, and peaceful, in a green land, with many friends and protectors, and no need to go to war. I want my people to be considered _harmless_ – and oh, my friend, I want my people to have the chance, even the barest edge of a chance, to be thought of as heroes.”

Frodo blinks in surprise, then leans across the table to put a hand on Thaukha’s arm. “For what it’s worth, my friend – as far as I am concerned, you and all your people, who had the courage to come down out of the hills and build a new life among people who had been your enemies – you are already heroes, as brave and good-hearted as anyone could be.”


	31. Springtime

“Now, I know the dwobbits have taught you the basics,” Sam says cheerfully, “but there are some differences between gardening and farming, you know. If nothing else, you can’t garden wheat!”

The uruk around him laugh. “We are eager to learn the differences,” Shatauz tells him. “For instance, why have you brought three wagon-loads of charcoal down from Mizimir?”

Sam grins. “Because we’re going to mix it into the soil. Helps keep it healthy, and means that you can grow crops in it for years and years without the soil growing weak.”*

“Soil can be _weak_?” Shatauz asks blankly.

“Oh yes. You grow things in it, they take the health out of the soil; so you have to give the soil charcoal, and manure, and bone, and all the things to make it strong again, so it’ll grow you strong plants.”

The uruk glance at each other in amazement. “It’s like blood, then?” one of them inquires. “You have to keep mixing it to make it strong?”

“Very like!” Sam praises the uruk. “It’s good to grow different things in a field now and again, or let it lie fallow for a year – though this land has been lying fallow for so many years, and I shall teach you to take such good care of it, that you needn’t worry about that for a fair while yet.”

“We shall learn _everything_ ,” Shatauz promises, and they bend to their work with eager smiles.

*

“These are the seeds for the herbs we use in our teas,” Rosie tells her audience. “There are four important teas. The first makes a woman fertile.” She glances at the uruk, noticing burgeoning bellies on many. “I don’t know that you’re going to need that one as much as the elves do!”

There is a wave of laughter among the uruk women. One in the front pats her stomach proprietarily. “That we won’t!” she agrees.

“The second makes a woman _not_ fertile while she’s drinking it. We hobbits have learned that it is not wise, even for us, to have children more frequently than…every year and a half or two years, honestly. We need time to get our strength back. But that doesn’t mean we have to miss out on sharing our beds!”

The laughter this time is louder, and several of the uruk women nudge each other teasingly. The chief, in the back of the crowd, observes, “And now that we are at peace, we will have _time_ to wait a year or two between children. That is no small boon.” The other uruk nod agreement.

Rosie nods to them. “The second tea also,” she adds solemnly, “if drunk early in a pregnancy, will _end_ that pregnancy. But that use is rarer, and often only if the mother is sick unto dying.”

“Still,” Kasak replies, “it is a good use to know; which of us can say what circumstances may yet arise?” There are murmurs of agreement.

“The third tea is a painkiller,” Rosie continues. “It’s good even during childbirth, or so I am told – I haven’t needed to try it for _that_ yet. But it’s also good for monthly cramps, and for headaches; every hobbit garden has the herbs for this, and most of us keep packets made up in the pantry so that we always have them on hand.”

“Is it good for injuries also?” inquires Burzha, who is sitting with Thaukha and Amdir off to one side. “We may no longer do battle, but I am sure farming has its dangers.”

“Most injuries, aye,” Rosie agrees. “But not illness – it’ll do nothing for a sore throat or a hacking cough.” She shrugs. “We have teas for that, too, and I’ll teach them to you later.”

“I thank you,” Burzha says solemnly, and Rosie nods graciously to her and then takes a deep breath.

“The last tea is for when a woman is bleeding out,” she says quietly. “It’ll help stop the bleeding, as much as is possible, and often it’s enough to save the woman if it’s administered quickly. Our midwives always have a pot of it on hand at a birth, and if the pregnancy is hard, sometimes the woman’s family will keep a pot of it steeping for the entire second half of her time. But there’s never any promises, and the tea isn’t a cure-all; sometimes it’s not enough.”

The uruk nod, and Kasak says, “We know the dangers of childbirth; a death in childbed is honorable as one in battle. But we thank you for the knowledge of these teas; perhaps our sisters and our daughters will know less danger in their time.”

Rosie bows a little to her, and shakes off the solemn mood. “Now, here is how to prepare them…”

*

Frodo is closeted with Kasak and Burzha, Thaukha and Amdir and Shatauz. It is actually a little uncomfortable, being the only male in the room; but then, he is also the only hobbit, so perhaps that is the source of the discomfort.

“Thaukha and Shatauz have explained to us about the Thains and how the Shire is run,” Kasak begins, “and later we shall have many questions for you on that matter. But for right now, all we want to know is – _how do hobbits work?_ Even the dwobbits do not quite seem to understand you. We are told you do not go to war, you do not quarrel, you content yourselves with gardens and parties and the confines of your own lands, and yet your own kinsman defeated the Shadow. Explain!”

Frodo spreads his hands a little, gathering his thoughts. “We…we are taught, we hobbits, nearly from birth, that a compromise is better than a victory, a gift given better than gotten, a moment of laughter more valuable than gold. We live shoulder to shoulder with our kinsmen, and each hobbit knows the business of every other hobbit within miles of their smial. We…we watch each other, each and all, for anger, for sorrow, for quarrels and bad temper; and those are brought out into the open, so that they are plain to see, and not allowed to fester and become feuds as other races have.”

He sighs. “And this is a thing which only the Thains are truly taught, though all know it in their bones: we do this because we _could_ be terrible. You know what my uncle did: he bore the Ring of Sauron himself into the very heart of Mordor and there destroyed it, without qualm or hesitation, and he did it because the bones of hobbits are the deep earth. We do not break, we do not bend. We are stronger than stone. My uncle looked into the heart of a volcano, into molten rock and fire, and came away unscathed, because that is the heart of my people.”

The uruk regard him with something like awe.

“We are _capable_ of great things,” Frodo says softly, “but we choose – we have chosen for generations past counting – to turn our backs upon that capability, because with great things, with heroic quests and the strength which breaks mountains, come terrible things as well. Feuds which destroy entire families; wars which burn whole nations to ash and gone; dark deeds which cannot be spoken of in the light of day. We have chosen, the hobbits, to never become what we could be, because we _like_ being small and insignificant, we _like_ being peaceful and full of joy in small things, when the alternative is being great and terrible. We know what we could be. We do not want it.”

Thaukha says, very quietly, “And so you have chosen to be kind.”

Frodo smiles at her. “To be kind, yes. To love our kinsmen, to have parties, to enjoy our beautiful Shire and our laughing children and the long tales on winter nights, to watch things grow and sit quietly with our pipes and smile. That is our choice.”

Kasak nods. “We have been terrible,” she observes. “Our history is full of war and black deeds. Perhaps, with the help of the hobbits, we shall learn to be other than we were.”

“We will help you as much as we are able,” Frodo promises. “It is the very least that we can do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Terra_preta


	32. Summer

Silmarien finds Jonquil in the evening, sitting with his wife and watching their children play. She sits beside them in silence for a while, enjoying the last soft strains of birdsong and the happy laughter of the children. At last she sighs.

“It’s been near a year,” she says, “and my father’s letters grow more worried. I must go back to Minas Tirith soon.”

“And what will you tell them?” Jonquil inquires.

“What I have already written: that the uruk are a peaceful people now, regardless of what they were in the past, that they have law and custom, family and friendship, and that if they are not like us – well, neither are dwarves or hobbits, and we do not account them enemies for that.” She grins a little. “I do not say I love the uruk wholeheartedly, but they speak their minds plainly – I prefer them to half the people at court, who could not do so much if you paid them!”

Jonquil laughs. “That’s true enough,” he says. There is a pause, and then, slowly, he adds, “My princess, I will not be returning to Minas Tirith with you.”

“I wondered,” Silmarien replies quietly. “You seem so happy here – you and Cidwen and the children.”

Cidwen smiles into the dusk. “The forests here remind me of the North,” she says. “The elves, too, are a taste of home. And I am more use in the forests of the White Mountains than roaming the flatlands of Gondor.”

Jonquil nods. “There is so much to _learn_ ,” he says, eager and joyful. “They have laws and customs which are nothing like any system of Men or elves or dwarves or hobbits. They have thousands upon thousands of years of history, every bit of it oral, and Thaukha says she will talk the year-keepers of any other clan which comes out of the mountains into letting me copy down their songs. Even learning their tongue is fascinating – they have so many words for things that Men do not, simply because of all their years under the Shadow!”

Cidwen and Silmarien share a glance. Jonquil trails off with some embarrassment.

“It’s just…it’s an opportunity, and I can’t pass it up.” He waves a hand at his children. The twins are wrestling, though their laughter makes it harder for either to pin the other; Inziladun is playing quietly with a pile of stones, which on closer look reveal themselves to be well-polished semiprecious gems. “And for them, too. In Minas Tirith they are the children of that odd Umbari man – you know that is true; even Yozaya has to put up with that, though Elia shields her from most of it – but here, where uruk and dwobbits and elves all play together, they are no stranger than any other child. Belthor and Ziraphel will find good mentors here as they grow – I do not know how many people in Minas Tirith would take on my children as apprentices out of mere good will, and not some desire for political capital.” He shrugs. “And I like it here.”

“As do I,” Cidwen agrees.

“I shall miss you,” Silmarien says quietly. “So will Mother and Father, I know – you must come to visit now and again. But I am happy for you, that you have found such a good place, and that you are so contented.”

She pulls her friends into a three-way hug, and they laugh and embrace her tightly.

“Belthor will be heartbroken to lose his favorite model when you leave,” Jonquil says as they pull apart again. “But then, it will do him good to draw other people.”

Their laughter hangs in the still evening air like stars.

*

“I’ll be leaving soon,” Silmarien says.

Theodwyn nods. “I figured as much. My troop and I have orders to escort you through Rohan, so I’ll be with you on the road, at least.”

“That will be fun!” Silmarien replies joyfully. “Though I will not pretend I ride so well as the princess of the Rohirrim.”

Theodwyn laughs. “Of course you don’t, court lady. But then, I cannot dance as well as the princess of Gondor.”

They grin at each other across the sparring rink, and then Theodwyn feints left and Silmarien skips backwards. For a few minutes nothing more is said.

“I will miss you,” Theodwyn admits, some time later.

“And I you,” Silmarien returns. “Where else will I find a friend so well suited to me in battle and in bed?”

Theodwyn’s grin is nothing short of smug. “And when shall I ever have another chance to take the most beautiful woman in the world to my bed and spar with her in the ring?”

“Do write to me,” Silmarien urges. “It’s lonely, sometimes, in Minas Tirith – and I can only stand so much of my little brothers!”

“I’ll write if you will,” Theodwyn promises. “And I’ll visit, if the opportunity arises. And if you marry ere I die, I shall dance at your wedding and tell your spouse it’s a fine wife and a good queen you’ll be.”

Silmarien grins. “Just for that I’ll insist you wear a dress to my wedding.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“Even Boromir had to wear a dress once.” Silmarien laughs. “She was beautiful, and she hated every minute of it. I think she burned it the day after the ball.”

“I didn’t even wear a dress to my _brother’s_ wedding,” Theodwyn points out. “What makes you think I would wear one for yours?”

“Because you adore me,” Silmarien teases.

“Hah,” Theodwyn returns. “I’ll dance at your wedding – yes, even in a dress – just to prove a shieldmaiden of Rohan can do anything a Gondorian princess can do! And half the lasses of Gondor will run away with me to ride the plains of Rohan and never marry at all.”

Silmarien shrugs. “Fine by me if they do,” she says. “It’d be good for them – and good for the lords of Gondor, to know their womenfolk have brains and desires of their own!”

“Well then, perhaps I will,” Theodwyn says more seriously. “I’ll show up with no warning, your scandalous shieldmaiden friend from your year abroad, and teach the pretty girls of Gondor how to swear and ride and where to kick a man who’s pressing his suit a little too hard.”

“Do, please!” Silmarien says, and sets aside her weapons, opening her arms. Theodwyn puts down her sword and steps into the embrace. “I will miss you so, Theodwyn daughter of Theodred.”

“And I will miss you, Silmarien of Gondor.”

And if this is their very last kiss, well, it’s a fine one indeed.


	33. Autumn

The uruk are dancing in their village’s main square, the steps some odd hybrid between hobbit jigs and uruk stamping, their hands held high in joy and celebration. Frodo and Sam and Rosie sit off to one side, on the step of the house the uruk built for them, drinking cold clear springwater and smiling.

The harvest is coming in, and it is larger than the uruk dared to dream. There is wheat and barley, there are beans and cabbage and peppers and carrots, there are oats and peas and onions and cucumbers. There is enough food to feed the entire village for the winter, and set aside a storehouse full for lean times, and send wagon upon wagon of wheat and barley up to the city. For the first time in longer than any uruk of clan Madargon can remember, there is no danger of starvation this winter, there will be no crying children going without their dinner, no mothers giving their portions away to their daughters. And so there is dancing, there in the evening after the day’s harvest is gathered in, dancing and singing and rejoicing.

Tiruth is overseeing the children. He’s still not quite sure how the uruk decided that he was a good choice for a babysitter – the Valar know he still thinks every uruk adult is a creature which should not be allowed to exist – but the children are _children_. He looks after them as well as he can, and he is very good at it indeed. Under his watchful eye, the children play without injury, are fed the best food he can create, and learn the names and uses of every plant and animal he can point out to them. The uruk appear to think that this is quite acceptable childcare.

Tonight he is helping the older children make a salad. It’s slow going, not because the children do not want to help, but because every one of them keeps eating the ingredients instead of putting them in the bowl. The chunks of carrot and cucumber disappear as fast as he can slice them – the older children spirit them away and hand them out to the younger children, who eat them with expressions of utter joy.

Tiruth has never seen children so happy to eat their vegetables as uruk children are. Elvish children tend to beg for honey cakes or candied fruit – these children will line up for slices of pepper, or carrots chopped small, and devour them with every evidence of pleasure. They will give him pleading looks at the very _possibility_ of sweet peas or sliced beets. They rejoice at the availability of tiny cabbage, and have raptures over eggplant. It’s not at all normal, but Tiruth must admit that children who would _rather_ eat their vegetables than their sweets are a pleasant change from children who must be coaxed into finishing their dinners before they can have dessert.

Eventually there is something like a salad – Tiruth manages to hand a large slice of carrot to every uruk child, which keeps them busy just long enough for him to finish filling the bowl – and he carries it to the main square himself, because if he gives it to one of the children it’ll never make it there. He may not care for the orcs, but he’s not going to let them think he can’t make a simple salad.

And when the salad is delivered, if he hands the children over to their mothers and goes off to sit quietly by himself, what is that to anyone?

…And if, when the three children who are his especial charge come out from the dancing to sit beside him, he has saved a little bowl of vegetable slices out for them, well, what is that to anyone, either?

*

The entire clan turns out to see Frodo and Sam and Rosie off. Elladan and Elrohir have come down from the city – they, too, are going north, and it only makes sense for the elves and hobbits to travel together – and marvel at the obvious affection between the uruk and the hobbits. It seems that every uruk in the village wants to hug the hobbits before they leave, and several of the smallest uruk refuse to let go of Sam’s legs until Tiruth coaxes them away with promises of vegetables.

Frodo eyes the ponies with some misgivings, but Elladan and Elrohir help the hobbits mount and lead off to the north. Frodo gave his formal farewells to Legolas and Gimli some days ago – the intervening time being spent packing up the startling number of things a family of three can acquire during nearly a year in a strange place.

Sam sighs as they turn their ponies away from clan Madargon. “I’ll miss them,” he says gruffly. Rosie leans over to pat his hand.

“We all will,” she says. “But Amdir has promised to write to us regularly, and you know, it’s not that bad a trip. We could come back, someday.”

Frodo nods at his spouses. “We could, it’s true,” he says. “Though I do feel a bit guilty about making Uncle take on my duties so often; we should probably spend a few years in Bag End before we go having any more adventures.”

Rosie pats her stomach. “And it will be good to be in Bag End for the arrival of the little one,” she says smugly.

Frodo and Sam gape. “You…you’re…we’re having a fauntling?” Frodo stammers. The elves stare at their companions.

“ _Already_?” Elladan asks incredulously. “But you’ve barely been married any time at all!”

Rosie laughs. “You haven’t been paying any attention, have you?” she asks the elves. “Hobbits don’t _need_ a hundred years, or whatever ridiculous amount of time elves require. I simply switched out my teas. It was time.”

“A fauntling!” Sam cries joyfully, flinging his arms in the air; his pony, a well-trained and placid creature, stops dead beneath him, and he blushes and gathers the reins up again. “A fauntling,” he repeats quietly. “When are you due?”

“Not for months – not till spring at the earliest,” she reassures him. “I wouldn’t have wanted to travel once I was too far along.”

Elladan says, rather indignantly, “It only took mother _ten_ years for us! Not a hundred!”

Elrohir gives his brother a wry look. “And then another hundred and ten until Arwen,” he points out. “Though I maintain that was because you were so much of a handful, and they couldn’t bear the thought of another child.”

“ _I_ was a handful? Who came up with the frog trick?” Elladan retorts.

Frodo, watching the brothers bicker, leans over to Rosie and murmurs, “I am sure any fauntlings of your blood will be _vastly_ more sensible than certain people I could name.”

Rosie grins back at him. “Oh aye – and any fauntlings Samwise has the raising of will be as well-rooted as an oak tree.” She reaches out to brush hair off of Frodo’s forehead. “And any fauntlings of _your_ family will never doubt that they are loved beyond all measure. We shall raise our fauntlings well, Frodo Baggins, never you fear.”

“Of all the things which have ever worried me,” Frodo tells her, grinning, “ _that_ was not among them.” He glances over at Sam, who appears to be muttering under his breath. “Not with the two of you around to keep me honest.” He raises his voice a little. “Sam, what are you muttering about?”

“Names, of course!” Sam tells him indignantly. “What will we _name_ the fauntling?”

Rosie laughs. “We’ve months and months to worry on that, my lads. For now it is a lovely day, and soon we will be home again…if those mad elves don’t drown each other,” she adds, glancing over at the streambank where Elladan and Elrohir are cheerfully wrestling, their ponies standing idly by.

“They’ll catch us up,” Frodo says. “To the Shire!” And they ride on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I appear to have caught the plague, which does nothing for my ability to write a coherent story. Expect the next chapter Wednesday or later. Sorry!
> 
> *ETA: Thursday at the earliest, sorry. Lots of sleep and no coherency means I've gotten no writing done at all. Hope everyone else is healthy!


	34. Conversations

“Remember,” Elrohir cautions his brother, “we do not want to give Ada too much of a shock. Don’t tell him everything at once.”

Elladan bats at his brother. “I know, I know. I am not a complete fool, brother, even if I don’t babble philosophy all day.”

Elrohir sighs and pushes open the doors to his father’s study. “Ada! We return!”

Elrond rises from behind his desk and embraces his sons. “It is wonderful to see you again, my boys. Come; sit; take tea. And tell me everything.”

Elladan and Elrohir sit and accept teacups with well-learned grace, and Elrond takes his own seat and leans back, regarding his sons curiously. “So. What have you learned, these months in Mirost?”

Elrohir takes a deep breath, trying to decide what to begin with. Elladan beats him to the punch.

“Orcs are friendly now,” he begins, and Elrond’s eyes go wide. “They want to be farmers. Tiruth killed an orc woman so now he’s raising her children, because that’s how their laws work. Your granddaughter Silmarien sends her regards, and she’s even prettier than little sister is, though don’t tell anyone I said that. And Elrohir and I have both fallen in love, and we’re going back to Mizimir in the spring to court our beloveds.”

Elrohir drops his head into his hands. Elrond’s eyes are very, very wide. Finally he finds his voice again.

“I…see,” he says faintly. “I presume you have a more…detailed report for me?”

Elrohir pulls the scroll out of his bag and lays it gently on the desk. Elrond manages a tiny smile. “Thank you, Elrohir. And now I think I need to…consider everything you have brought me.”

The boys stand and bow and leave. As the door closes behind them, Elrond hears Elrohir hiss, “I told you not to tell him everything at once!”

*

“ **I am Dahamab, of clan Madargon,** ” the uruk woman says to the year-keeper and the chief of clan Ghash. “ **I come with an invitation from clan Madargon, and from the lords of the city of Mizimir: come down into the flatlands. Learn to farm. Live in peace, under the protection of Mizimir, and never fear war or hunger again.** ”

The chief gives her a dubious look. “ **And is clan Madargon sure of this offer?** ”

“ **Oh yes,** ” Dahamab says cheerfully. “ **We’ve been there a year and a half now, and the only person who ever offered violence to us was turned over to clan justice by the lords of the city. The hobbits of the north even came down to teach us how to farm as they do – and we had so much food last winter that there wasn’t a single day that anyone went hungry!** ”

Indeed, Dahamab is visibly in better shape than any of the uruk around her: well-fed, healthy, and strong, with her head held high. “ **I bring you gifts, to prove my words,** ” she continues, and unshoulders the pack on her back, emptying it onto the nearest table to reveal carrots and parsnips, onions and dried peas and a loaf of heavy dark bread. “ **This is the smallest fraction of our foodstores,** ” she says, as the uruk around her gape. “ **Come down, and join us, and you shall have as much as we.** ”

*

“ **We need animals,** ” Kasak says to the other uruk of her clan’s council. “ **We have learnt to farm plants, but we need meat and wool and bone. There are fields enough to feed animals – most of them eat grass, if I am not mistaken – but we do need them. We cannot continue to depend on Mizimir’s hunting to provide us with meat.** ”

Shatauz nods. “ **You are entirely correct,** ” she agrees. “ **The elves have begun to worry about over-hunting, and the leather-workers despair that they have not enough to do. If we had some livestock, we could supply the city with meat as well as produce – and I am entirely sure that the leather-workers would pay us for the skins of the beasts.** ”

Thaukha glances at her partner. “ **Amdir, would you send to Theodwyn? Perhaps Rohan would be willing to sell us…sheep, perhaps? Not horses.** ”

“ **I do not think the Rohirrim would ever sell their horses,** ” Amdir agrees, “ **but I will write to her about sheep, or goats, or even perhaps cattle if there is a breed which does not grow too large.** ” She flattens a piece of parchment in front of her and pulls a quill from her hair. “ **And I will write to Legolas and Gimli, too; they may be willing to pay gold for the animals if we send them produce, but I do not think the Rohirrim would sell livestock for carrots.** ”

Kasak nods approvingly at her. “ **Do so,** ” she commands.

*

“ **This is a chili pepper,** ” Shatauz tells her class: uruk of five different clans, all eager to learn the art of farming. “ **Do not eat them raw or whole. It will cause pain such as no uruk wants to bear.** ”

“ **Hah!** ” says one broad-shouldered male from clan Tarbam. “ **Clan Madargon has grown soft in these gentle lands. _I_ shall eat a chili pepper, and it will harm me not at all.** ” He strides forward, plucks the tiny vegetable from Shatauz’s fingers, and pops it into his mouth with a smirk.

Scant seconds later he is standing over the water-bucket, trying frantically to get the horrible burning to stop. Shatauz sighs. “ **Someone give him some bread,** ” she says wearily. “ **Water doesn’t actually help.** ”

Shakopa, next to her, grins. “ **No,** ” he says, and picks another pepper off the bush, holding it up contemplatively. “ **Still, they aren’t _that_ bad,** ” he adds, and eats it.

The other uruk stare at him, waiting for him to scream and run for the water or the loaf of bread which Amdir has handed to the previous victim of the peppers. Shakopa just smirks and shrugs. “ **Just takes some practice,** ” he offers, and wanders off to help Tiruth round up some of the rowdier children.

Several of the uruk women in the crowd eye him speculatively.

*

“ **Remind me how uruk choose mates?** ” Amdir asks that evening. Thaukha rolls onto her back and tucks her hands under her head.

“ **We look for someone of high rank. That can mean good blood, or strength, or skills that no one else has. You and I have such rank, obviously: me for my mother’s blood and my place as apprentice year-keeper, you for your skills which no other uruk can match. Someone who is clever is also a good mate; someone who can plan ahead is very valuable, since so many uruk merely think of today.** ” She turns her head to look at her partner. “ **Why do you ask?** ”

Amdir flushes. “ **Um. Well. I know we’re supposed to find a mate soon.** ”

“ **So we are,** ” Thaukha agrees. “ **We’re both old enough, and we’ve the rank for anyone we care to have.** ” She grins. “ **And you’ve got your eye on someone, don’t you.** ”

Amdir covers her face with her hands. “ **Maybe?** ”

Thaukha rolls over and tugs Amdir’s hands down, kissing her partner tenderly. “ **Go on, then, tell me. You’ve good taste.** ”

Amdir gulps. “ **Well…how do you feel about Shakopa?** ”


	35. What Is An Uruk?

“So this is a sheep,” Thaukha says warily. Theodwyn grins at her.

“It doesn’t bite,” she offers. “I mean, the point is for _you_ to eat _it_ , one of these days.”

Thaukha gives Theodwyn a dirty look. “I thank you,” she says.

“We also brought you goats,” Theodwyn says cheerfully. “And – here’s a strange thing. I told the people I was buying these from that they were for the uruk over in the Empty Lands, and they…well, frankly, most of them didn’t realize that uruk and orc mean the same thing.”

Thaukha thinks about this for a long minute. “You mean they didn’t scream or grow angry at the idea of selling animals to uruk, because they didn’t realize that we were orcs?”

“Exactly. Many of them sent their good wishes.”

“ _What?_ ” 

“I told them you’d been living in the hills for a while, and had only just started to farm, but you were very excited about it. Most of them sent their good wishes and hoped you’d have good crops and fine weather.”

Thaukha sits down, hard, on a nearby rock. “ _Men_ …send their good wishes to _us_?” She shakes her head. “Now that is the strangest thing I have heard in a long while.”

Theodwyn grins. “Think how strange it seemed to me, as the messenger!”

*

“I am Amdir,” Amdir tells the little crowd of apprentice year-keepers gathered in what had been the hobbits’ house. “Yes, I know that’s not an uruk name. I was raised by the wizard Gandalf, who taught me the arts that Men and elves know. This is Jonquil, who is a year-keeper of Men. Yes, he’s male. Men do things differently.” She takes a deep breath.

“You are here to learn to read and write, both in our own tongue, which Jonquil does not yet speak fluently, and in the common tongue.”

“Why?” inquires the apprentice year-keeper of clan Ghash. “We have never needed to read or write before.”

“Because, once we can read and write, we can write down our year-songs,” Amdir replies. “Then, even in the horrible event that the year-keeper and her apprentice both die…the clan and its songs will live on.”

The apprentice year-keepers murmur among themselves for several moments, and then the representative of clan Ghash turns back to the front. “Very practical,” she compliments Amdir. “Teach us; we will learn.”

*

“Hullo!” Elladan calls cheerfully, waving at the people waiting in the open gate of Mizimir. Elrohir sighs.

One of the figures moves away from the gate in the graceful ground-clearing lope of the elves, and minutes later Lariel is walking beside Elladan’s horse.

“We expected you earlier,” she observes mildly.

Elladan gives her a wry grin. “Our father wanted the details of our adventures in…well, in great detail. Repeatedly.”

Elrohir grins at his brother. “The fact that Elladan saw fit to tell our father the…overview all in one piece, and then left me to add in all the details, has nothing to do with this, of course.”

Elladan makes a face at his brother, and offers a hand to Lariel. “Here; swing up behind me.” Lariel puts her hand in his and leaps gracefully up. Elladan grins and spurs his horse forward, leaving Elrohir behind.

Elrohir sighs, and says, apparently to the sky, “Peace and quiet at last!”

Brethil steps out of a small copse of trees beside the road and smiles.

*

In the end, much to Amdir’s relief, she and Thaukha do not have to approach Shakopa. Amdir would do it – Thaukha agrees that Shakopa is a good choice for a mate, and apparently it’s appropriate for both partners to approach their choice, so Amdir would go with Thaukha if she had to – but Shakopa takes the decision neatly out of their hands by arriving at the door to their tiny house with a large rabbit pie and a hopeful look.

Thaukha grins and invites him in, taking the pie eagerly. “ **You made it yourself,** ” she says, smelling the steam rising off of it.

“ **I did,** ” Shakopa agrees. “ **As your partner taught me.** ”

Amdir leans over Thaukha’s shoulder to take a sniff. “ **Bay,** ” she says, “ **and rosemary.** ”

“ **As you taught me,** ” Shakopa says again. Amdir smiles at him.

“ **A better student I could not have desired,** ” she says, as Thaukha carries the pie carefully over to their table. “ **You’ll join us for dinner – if that’s appropriate?** ”

“ **Entirely,** ” Thaukha says. “ **The pie, I assume, is a courting gift. If we are open to being courted, we invite him to stay.** ” She grins at Shakopa. “ **Which we are, and so, have a seat.** ”

Shakopa nods and sits. “ **I caught the rabbit myself,** ” he says after a moment, “ **and grew the carrots and onions and celery, and made the dough. It is all the work of my hands but the wheat.** ”

Thaukha gives him a faintly admiring look. “ **A fine gift indeed, then,** ” she says. “ **We are honored.** ”

Amdir glances at her partner with something like desperation; Thaukha laughs and takes pity on her. “ **The more work someone puts into a courting gift, the more valuable it is, and the more…eager the suitor is. For Shakopa to have made this entire pie by his own hand, with ingredients he procured himself, is a great compliment to both of us.** ”

Amdir smiles at Shakopa. “ **Thank you** ,” she says. The light is dim, but she could swear he flushes, just a little, and that is definitely a tiny smile on his normally blank face.

Dinner is delicious. And after dinner…that is pleasant too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I'm so sorry. The plague has used up my buffer entirely, and I am going on a very important trip this coming week: I won't have any more chapters for you until Tuesday the 18th. I may post a fragment of the Saga of Bilbo Ring-bearer, but nothing else until then.
> 
> ...Aargh, plague, I hate you so. But I love all my readers!


	36. Visiting Madargon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience! I am no longer plague-ridden or traveling, so the last few chapters of this epic should go up in good time. Warnings in this chapter for violence and suicide.

“Legolas, Gimli,” Shatauz greets their guests with some surprise. “We were not expecting you.”

Legolas shrugs gracefully. “We know you’re busy; it didn’t seem fair to ask you to come up to the city when it’s easy enough for us to come down.” He grins. “Laney and Lariel and the council do well enough without us, after all.”

Shatauz looks a bit abashed. “We do apologize for not coming up to join the council – but we have, indeed, been very busy, and Mizimir seems to be running well enough without us. Once the lessons are done and our sister clans have gotten themselves settled, we will be more able to attend meetings.”

“We understand completely,” Legolas assures her. “We do hope that you and your chief and her council will have time to meet with us today, but we also hoped to meet some of the representatives of other clans, if they are amenable.”

“Of course!” Shatauz replies cheerfully. “Come; the other clans are currently in the fields, following our clan members as they work.” She leads them through the village, where those uruk of clan Madargon who are not farming wave to their visitors and call greetings. “We’ve representatives of all eleven remaining clans,” Shatauz tells her guests. “We’re very glad to see all of them survived the years in the White Mountains.”

“Only eleven clans?” Gimli inquires curiously. “I thought there were more.”

“Oh, there were ninety and nine clans once, before the Shadow rose again,” Shatauz replies. “Or so the songs tell us. But the Shadow never cared for our clans – it would have preferred we all be clanless war-bands, with no year-songs or laws. Easier to control that way, after all. Of course, after the Shadow fell, we adopted anyone who wanted to join Madargon, but the eighty and eight clans whose year-keepers died are gone forever.”

They reach the edge of the village, and Shatauz gestures out towards the fields. “But the past is past, and there’s no use wishing it were otherwise. Here we have the representatives of the clans Ghash and Tarbam, Illska and Urrogat, Nagithas and Gajutar and Trenot, Pakon and Thrugrim and our sister-clan Eitur, whose mothers’ mothers left Madargon when we were grown too large.”

Sure enough, there are dozens of uruk working in the fields, and Legolas can pick out eleven different shoulder-tattoos on their left shoulders, one the familiar sharp-edged leaf and berries of Mardargon, one very like it which is probably Eitur, and nine others which are as-yet incomprehensible. Most of the uruk are laughing and talking among themselves in the Black Speech – Legolas has nearly learnt to stop flinching when he hears that tongue – as they gather about their teachers or pull weeds or haul water.

“They will break for lunch soon,” Shatauz assures her guests. “Samwise made it very clear that it was foolish to work through the heat of the day if it was not absolutely necessary – and nothing they are doing now cannot be done later, when the sun is lower.”

Gimli grins. “A wise hobbit, our Master Samwise. We received a letter from Frodo recently – he writes that Rosie has had a daughter, as fine a fauntling as anyone could wish, and they have named her Amaranth.”

Shatauz grins. “I am glad to hear it, and so shall all the clan be; I will announce the happy news over dinner.”

The uruk in the fields begin to turn towards the village again, their teachers – Madargon to an uruk – waving them away from their tasks. Many of the Madargon uruk smile when they see Legolas and Gimli standing there by the water barrels, though the uruk of other clans give the elf and dwarf rather sidelong looks.

And as the uruk reach the water barrels, one of them, a tall burly female, turns suddenly and raises the hoe in her hands with a hoarse battle cry, and leaps for Legolas.

Shatauz stops her – takes her down with a leaping kick which looks more like a hobbit dance-step than anything else – and stands over her panting, as Gimli pushes his beloved behind him and draws his axe, and Legolas lays hand upon the long knife at his belt. The other uruk cry out in alarm, clutching at each other’s arms and pushing forward to see what has happened, and the commotion draws the uruk chieftains from their council in Kasak’s cottage to see what is the matter.

“Shatauz! What is the meaning of this?” Kasak demands as soon as she is near enough, and Shatauz, never taking her eyes from the uruk at her feet, replies,

“That is for the chief of the Urrogat to tell you, mother, for it is one of her clan’s daughters who has tried to attack the lords of the city, without provocation or warning. Perhaps clan Urrogat has decided to turn their backs upon the Dream, and return to being monsters?”

The other members of clan Urrogat among the crowd of uruk shake their heads, and many of them cry out objections. Legolas, watching them closely, can see nothing but confusion and dismay in their expressions, hear nothing but expostulations of innocence. The chief of clan Urrogat pushes her way to the front of the cluster of chiefs.

“Is this so, Tharm? Have you attacked the lords of the city, by whose kindness we have been given lands and the promise of peace?”

Tharm struggles against the foot Shatauz has planted upon her chest. “Lords of the city – shall we be slaves again, as we were to the Shadow, to elves and dwarves and stranger things, who will work us until we fall and take all that we produce for their Light-begotten peoples? When has an elf been friend to an uruk, or a dwarf offered us peace? They come to look at their property, no more than that! _I_ will not bow my head to any _lords_.”

“Fool and thrice fool,” the chief of clan Urrogat says bitterly. “Had you asked I could have told you that our council today was to discuss how much we could send to the city while keeping enough for ourselves; had you looked you should have seen lands and animals and tools, all given to us by the lords of the city whom you so despise.” She snarls. “There is no place in Urrogat for a fool who takes up arms against those who do us kindness, which no Light-begotten race has ever done before. What, would you have slain even the hobbit who bore the Ring, for that he dared lay hands upon it? Fool and thrice fool: you are no daughter of mine, nor of my clan.”

Another uruk woman pushes forward through the crowd, her shoulder proclaiming her also one of Urrogat’s uruk. She gives the chief a very slight bow, which the chief returns. “Nameless and clanless I call you,” the new uruk says to Tharm, who makes a sound of intense distress. “No songs of yours shall I sing; your mother bore no daughter who brought such dishonor to the clan. Urrogat knows you not. I am the year-keeper; so say I, and none may gainsay me.”

Legolas and Gimli glance at each other in astonishment. It’s been clear to them since the first day they met Thaukha and Shatauz how important clan is to the uruk: this, then, must be a punishment reserved for the very worst crimes. The expressions of dismay and horror on the faces of the watching uruk bear that interpretation out. Gimli puts his axe away; there will, he suspects, be little need for it. The uruk police their own.

Shatauz steps away from Tharm, who struggles to her knees, looking around desperately. None of the uruk will meet her eyes; the other members of her former clan turn away, shunning her entirely. Tharm cries out, once, a wordless wail of despair, and snatches the little knife from her belt. Gimli reaches for his axe again; but there is no need. Tharm drives the knife into her own heart, and falls.

The year-keeper of clan Urrogat sighs and puts a gentle hand on the chief’s shoulder as she sags. “Perhaps the Dream will give her peace,” the year-keeper says, and the other chiefs gather around their grieving colleague and draw her away.


	37. Justice

Shatauz leads her guests away from the sad little heap of Tharm’s body; behind them, the uruk gather up the corpse and take it away for burial or burning, whatever it is that uruk do with bodies – Legolas has never asked.

“I apologize for that,” Shatauz says once they have reached the main square and she has procured cups of water and a plate of bread and vegetables and found Legolas and Gimli seats. “If I had known Tharm had such thoughts, I would never have brought you near her.”

“We know, lass,” Gimli tells her gruffly. “We don’t think you lot are trying to betray us – no one puts _this_ much work into a scheme. There’s a bad apple in every batch.”

Legolas nods. “Look at Tiruth, after all,” he offers. “And _he_ actually managed to hurt someone beside himself, and for less reason.” He sighs. “I can, alas, see something of her point; why should an uruk trust an elf and a dwarf to treat her well?”

Shatauz shakes her head. “Because you _have_ ,” she says pointedly. “Uruk do not deal in may-be and might-happen and could-have-been. We do not have that luxury. We deal in what _is_ , and what _is_ is that you have given us land and food and protection, and all the aid we could desire, for nothing more than our promise that we will be good. No uruk alive today remembers the battles against elves and dwarves and Men, for all we have the songs to remind us. Our mothers and sisters have not died at your hands; our children have not been made motherless by your actions – except Tiruth, as you say, and he pays his price with honor. Skessa’s children thrive.” She shrugs. “Tharm was living in the time-that-was. That time is over. Those who cling to it must change or die, for there is no place within the clans for those who would sabotage our newfound peace.”

“That’s…fair harsh,” Gimli says after a moment. “Change can be hard on people.”

“Hard?” Shatauz replies scornfully. “Change is not hard. Starving is hard. Dying is hard. Watching children die is hard. Fighting under the Shadow’s will is hard. When the choice is change or die, change is _easy_.” She sighs. “Uruk have lived in the mountains where nothing grow, and we have survived, but that was hard. Uruk have lived in the dry plains where fire is more frequent than rain, and we have survived, but that was hard. Uruk have lived in the mountains, afraid every day that we would be discovered and destroyed, and that was hard. Uruk have taken arms against the White City of Men, and eight and eighty of our clans have died of it, and that was hard too. Learning to farm, learning to tend crops and animals and not having to choose which child must die because there is not enough food for all? That is _easy_ , lords of Mizimir.”

Legolas wraps an arm around Gimli, as if reminding himself that his beloved lives and is beside him. “I see your point,” he says at last, and Gimli nods agreement.

*

“I must apologize for the actions of the clanless one,” the chief of clan Urrogat says, some time later, as Legolas and Gimli settle themselves into the circle of chiefs.

“There is no need,” Legolas assures her. “No harm was done, and the justice of the uruk is swift and fair. We are content.”

The chiefs look rather reassured by this, and several of them relax noticeably. Legolas cannot help but wonder if they expected him and Gimli to demand some form of reparations, and what form they were worrying those reparations would take – the food the uruk have not yet grown? The animals yet unborn which will someday roam the plains? The lives of half the clan of Urrogat?

Kasak nods at her fellow chiefs. “Then that is done,” she says, and that does seem to settle that. “Now; we welcome you to our village, lords of Mizimir. What brings you down from the city?”

“We wished to speak with you regarding the laws of Mizimir, and also regarding the taxation system which will someday be required,” Legolas tells her. “We know you do not _currently_ have enough food, and we are glad to subsidize you until your storehouses are full and your crops as plentiful as you desire, but it will be good to have a plan for the future.”

Kasak nods. “Sensible,” she agrees, and the other chiefs murmur agreement. “Well. There shall be eleven villages of us, to begin with, though with the hobbit medicines we may well begin to multiply. There is some thought that we may specialize: one village for wheat and barley, one for sheep, one for goats, another to begin planting fruit trees or olive cuttings. Of course all of us will have gardens.”

Gimli glances at his beloved. “Eleven villages,” he says softly. Then he grins. “We have been buying our food from Rohan, you know,” he tells the uruk. “A gem worth half a city, for half a city’s worth of grain. A sword fit for a king, in return for a king’s weight in vegetables. But with eleven villages to supply us with food…Mizimir will be rich beyond our wildest imaginings. Bring your excess food to Mizimir, and Mizimir will see to it that you have clothing and well-built houses, that your daughters and sons have apprenticeships where they desire them, that no bandit or enemy ever encroaches upon your land. Bring your excess to us, my friends, and between us we shall build such a kingdom as this world has never seen before, wealthy and peaceful and glorious beyond measure.”

Kasak grins. “That is assuming we _have_ excess food,” she points out.

Legolas laughs. “You have been trained by _hobbits_ ,” he retorts. “I have never seen such fertile fields as they have in the Shire.”

Kasak spreads her hands, acknowledging the point. “Well then, we shall send you our excess,” she agrees, “in amounts we shall decide upon when we have excess. And our daughters will be glad for the apprenticeships, I assure you; there are many among us who desire to learn the trades which we have never had the time and wealth to master.”

“Lovely,” Legolas says, grinning. “Then the other thing we wished to discuss was the possibility of incorporating uruk laws into the laws of Mizimir.”

The chiefs gape at him. “ _Uruk_ law? Incorporated in the laws of a city of elves and dwobbits?” Kasak asks incredulously.

“Well, it will be a city of uruk, too,” Gimli points out. “And thus far the only trial we have had has ended with uruk law prevailing. We cannot have one law for elves and one for dwobbits and one for uruk; that will only end in disaster. So we must create one law for all, which will apply to elves and dwobbits and dwarves and uruk and Men and any other races which happen to come to Mizimir. The uruk clearly already have a system of law which works; so too do dwarves, and so too do elves. Let us compare them all and see what we can make which will work for everyone.”

“Gladly,” says Kasak, and the assembled chiefs settle in for a long afternoon’s conversation.


	38. Party Preparations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: mention of past death of a child

The party to celebrate twenty years of Mizimir is going to be enormous. Laney should know: she's in charge of planning most of it. Technically, Lariel and the Council should be helping - and, to be fair, many of the Council's members _are_ doing their best - but Lariel tends to be off billing and cooing with her elvish prince when Laney needs a helping hand. It's mildly frustrating. Laney is perfectly _capable_ of doing most of the planning, but it would be _nice_ to have help.

Still, it's going to be a good party: a full week of feasting and games and performances, with guests coming from Rohan and Gondor to join the celebrations, and every uruk in the villages coming up to the city to dance and laugh with their elvish and dwobbit neighbors. Laney is rather looking forward to showing off the elegantly carved screens and stools and spinning wheels which she has spent every spare minute working on for the last few months, and she knows that many of Mizimir's other craftspeople have also been making special items to display. Some of the first group of uruk apprentices will be presenting their journeyman pieces during the festivities, too: Laney is on the committee to judge a young uruk carpenter's submitted work, and from what she's seen so far, giving the uruk journeyman status will be as easy as falling down a mineshaft and far less painful.

But Laney will be very glad when the whole party is _over_ and she won't have to worry about this sort of madness for another ten years at _least_.

She is bent over yet another sheaf of paperwork when a runner arrives from the gates - a young uruk whose parents sent her to Mizimir for a few years to learn the ways of the city and its people. "There are _hobbits_ on their way to the city!" she announces gleefully. "A whole wagon-load of them!"

Laney abandons her paperwork and hastens eagerly to the gates. Sure enough, there is a wagon making its slow way down the road from the north, with a familiar figure guiding the sturdy ponies from the driver's seat.

"Sam!" Laney greets him joyfully as the wagon slows to a stop at the gates. "We were not expecting you! Have you brought the whole family?"

"Oh aye," Sam replies. The wagon's back swings down, and half a dozen hobbits tumble out. "Frodo and Rosie have been riding herd on the fauntlings," Sam says fondly. "Amaranth and young Bilbo and Lily and little Robin." He grins. "Rosie's been a busy lass these last few years!"

"I shall never grow accustomed to the fertility of hobbits," Laney says with some amusement, and opens her arms to embrace her friends and their children. Amaranth and Lily both take after Rosie, and little Robin is far too young to tell what he will look like, but young Bilbo is _clearly_ Frodo's child: he has Frodo's eyes and dark hair and solemn, clever gaze. “Be welcome again to Mizimir; I know that everyone will be very glad to see you.”

*

Thaukha and Amdir come to Mizimir with their clan – much larger now than it was when they emerged from the hills to the promised empty lands. They are not the only uruk to have benefitted from the hobbit teas and herblore which Rosie taught the clan; indeed, nearly every house in every uruk village has a tiny garden of hobbit herbs, cherished and well-tended. Clan Madargon comes to Mizimir amid the shouts and laughter of many children, all well-fed and healthy and strong, the wealth of the clan made manifest.

Thaukha and Amdir end up sharing a house with Shatauz and her children – she has never found a partner, nor does she particularly seem to want one, but the chief-in-waiting is a high-status uruk indeed, and she has never lacked for mates. Three adults and eleven children do make for a slightly crowded living space, but it’s nothing the uruk are not used to – indeed, it feels rather odd to _not_ be surrounded by other uruk at all times.

They are seated near Legolas and Gimli at dinner – a good political move, and also a good opportunity to catch up with Frodo and Sam and Rosie and their brood, who are on the lords’ other side. Legolas grins at the scores of uruk children at every table in the great hall.

“Your people have done well for themselves, these past few years.”

Thaukha grins back at him. “We have, indeed.” She pats her eldest daughter on the shoulder. “Skopar here is already training to be a shepherd; her sister, Shakab, is going to be a cook like their father, and her **afar-gra** , Scara, wants to be a farmer. The younger ones haven’t decided yet.”

“ ‘Afar-gra’?” Gimli inquires curiously. “I don’t know that I’ve heard that word before.”

Thaukha looks at Amdir, who shrugs. “I think the closest translation would be ‘near-sister’,” she says. “It means the daughter of an uruk’s partner – the children share no blood at all, but they are raised together and live as sisters.” She grins. “Skopar and Shakab are both Shakopa’s daughters, but Scara’s father is Gajub, who is the tattoo-maker’s apprentice.”

Legolas nods understanding, then frowns a little. “I thought you had planned to have all of your children in pairs,” he says, nodding towards Scara where she is helping her younger siblings with their meals.

Thaukha gives him an unreadable look. “Olog did not survive,” she says at last. “It is thanks to the hobbit herbs that we have seven living children; before we came down into the valley and made alliance with Mizimir, one child in three died before her first birthday – in a good year.” She shrugs at the appalled expressions on the faces of her table companions. “Olog is in the Dream, and I have three children of my blood who live, and four of my partner’s blood. We mourned him in the proper time. The past is past.”

Rosie holds Robin a little closer; the infant makes a sleepy noise of protestation. “If it is our herbs and knowledge which have helped you, then I am glad,” she tells Thaukha, “but I will be gladder when you need not fret for _any_ of your children’s lives.”

Thaukha shrugs. “That will be a fine day, and one we work towards, but it is not the uruk way to grieve overmuch for a child gone to the Dream. We shall see him again, and in the meantime, he is in no danger.” She grins. “But I think the clan chiefs are planning to give you some token of their gratitude for all your help has done for us; do try to act surprised!”

Rosie shakes her head. “Uruk and hobbits must differ there, I think,” she says, “but I cannot fault you for that. A hobbit who lost one child in three would die of grief herself, and that would decimate an uruk clan more quickly than I care to think.” She smiles across the table. “I shall act very surprised when the chiefs present their gift – but I am grateful myself, you know, to have been able to make a difference.” She shrugs. “It’s not so often that a hobbit gets to change the world, you know – especially not one like me. I’m no warrior, like Primrose, no hero like Bilbo. Yet I have made a difference.”

Amdir smiles broadly. “Yes,” she agrees, and Thaukha nods. “We will remember your name, and Sam’s, and Frodo’s, as long as we remember Bilbo Ring-bearer.”

“Perhaps longer,” Thaukha adds cheerfully. “I know some of the other uruk of Madargon have named their children for you three. There are none named for Bilbo Ring-bearer.” She grins at Sam’s sudden deep blush. “We did not name any of _ours_ for you. We assumed you would be more embarrassed than flattered.”

“Thank you,” says Sam, with great sincerity.


	39. A Good Thing

Tiruth has not been to Mizimir since the day he took up his duties in the Madargon village. It would have been…unpleasant to visit a civilized place when he would only have had to return to the uruk again. But Murlat and Krupu and Hanhar want to see the festival, and so here they are, dressed in their best clothes, clean and well-fed and healthy, along with the entire rest of the clan (minus a few uruk who stayed behind to tend the sheep and water the plants, of course; Tiruth does not want to praise the uruk, but he must admit the roster which Kasak drew up, so that every uruk would have a chance to attend the festival and the animals would not be left unattended, is a marvel of diplomacy and efficiency).

Elrohir joins him as he watches Hanhar attempt to bob for apples – the child is soaked to the skin and grinning broadly, but the apples are as yet unharmed – and stands quietly for a while, watching the children play. Finally he says, “Murlat will be eighteen soon, will she not?”

Tiruth nods. “She is a fine farmer, and has already laid claim to a field,” he agrees.

Elrohir nods thoughtfully. “Good for her.” He glances over at Hanhar again. “Hanhar is just now ten, I think?”

“Yes,” Tiruth agrees. “She is small for her age, I know, but you should see her put away celery. It’s worse than humans and honey cakes.”

Elrohir’s smile widens. “Have you thought on what you will do when she is grown?” he asks after a long moment.

Tiruth watches his wards for several long minutes. There are many answers he could give. He could say, “I will be going as far as possible from this abomination of a city and its people.” He could say, “I will stay in Mizimir and learn.” He could say, “I will stay in Madargon village and watch the children of the children I raised grow to adulthood, and be content.” All of those are options. All of them could happen.

“I don’t know,” he says at last, and Elrohir nods and does not ask anything else. He does buy each of the children an apple, however, for which they thank him properly. Tiruth raises _polite_ children, thank you very much.

That evening, as they walk back to the guesthouse they have been assigned, Hanhar tucks her hand into his as Murlat and Krupu run ahead, shoving each other playfully and laughing, and says, “Thank you, Tiruth; I had a lot of fun.”

“You are welcome,” Tiruth tells her, and he means it.

*

Elven courtships are long. Forty years are not uncommon; centuries have been known to go by as elves exchange letters and small gifts and tokens of affection, before any consummation occurs. Legolas’ courtship is considered unusual not for its length but for the separation between them – and for the race of his beloved, of course.

Which means that Elladan is being more than a little precipitous in proposing to Lariel only ten years after meeting her. But there will never be a better time than the great festival, he argues to Elrohir – who drops his head into his hands and moans – and besides, he is more than two millennia old, he knows what he wants. It’s not as though he’s going to change his mind.

Elrohir and Brethil exchange a look which apparently says quite a lot, and then Brethil shrugs and Elrohir sighs.

“Very well, brother, you have my support – but you get to explain this to Ada. I am staying well out of that conversation.”

Elladan agrees absentmindedly, clearly thinking about Lariel and not entirely listening to his brother, and Elrohir sighs again and leaves his brother to his planning. Brethil walks beside him, comfortably in step, as they weave through the crowd of merry-makers.

“Lariel will say yes,” Brethil says as they pause to watch a juggler.

“I know,” Elrohir agrees. “No one spends that much time with my crazed brother if they don’t love him.”

Brethil considers that as they continue down the street. At length he smiles. “Someday,” he says, and Elrohir’s breath catches at his tone, “when a more…decorous span of time has passed…” He pauses, and Elrohir waits breathlessly. “I should be glad to say the same to you,” Brethil finishes finally.

Elrohir does not stop grinning for a week.

*

Legolas leans back against the outside wall of the great hall, warm in the sunshine and happily full – the return of Amdir to Mizimir’s bakery, brief though it must be, is a wonderful thing – with his heart’s own beside him, and watches his people play and dance and sing. It is a sight which could never be found in any other land: elves and dwarves, dwobbits and Men and uruk, all mingling as though there were no difference between them, all laughing at the antics of their children and sharing stories and making friends.

“We have made a good thing, my star,” he says quietly.

Gimli leans against him gently. “So we have,” he agrees.

“Do you think it will outlast us?”

Gimli gives Legolas a long look. “ _Ghivashel_ , between my natural lifespan and the spell which bound us, we will live a thousand years together at _least_. If we cannot establish our city properly by _then_ , I shall be very surprised indeed.”

Legolas laughs. “Yes, yes, that is very true,” he says, and bends to kiss the top of Gimli’s head. “I meant the Council, and the idea that many different races may live together in harmony – for even Belegost has only the two.”

Gimli considers the crowds in the main square. There are dwobbit and elven merchants doing a good business in trinkets and snacks; uruk herding crowds of children to and from the various entertainers’ stands; six dwarven women performing a hobbit dance to the applause of all onlookers. And there are dwobbit children playing in among the uruk, and elven children with them; there are elves and dwobbits and uruk standing together, talking, without a single sign of worry or strife. And even as he watches, an elven woman sweeps an uruk child into her arms and carries her back to her mother, speaking softly to her, as the uruk stares at her with wide and wondering eyes.

“I think,” he says at length, “that we have made a good thing, _muhudel_ , and that it will outlast us as the stone outlasts the leaf, or the tree the grass. This is our legacy, my love, and it is a good one indeed.” Then he laughs. “But I have no intention of leaving it behind so soon! I have many years yet, my dear one, to spend with you.”

Laney looks up from her stall to see the lords of the city kissing, hands tangled in each other’s hair, and smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End!
> 
> It's now been over a year since I started posting Coats & Customs! I am terrified and impressed. But now it is over; this is the last long fic in the C&C 'verse, and though there might be short fics someday, I make no promises.
> 
> Thank you to everyone for reading, commenting, and/or giving kudos; your support and enthusiasm made this epic possible.
> 
> Thank you also and especially to my Best Beloved, the best beta in the whole wide world, who made C&C immeasurably better than it might have been.
> 
> I have used a number of resources for this fic series, including the Tolkien Gateway, Hisweloke's Sindarin dictionary, the Black Speech dictionary on angelfire, the LotR Project's interactive map of Middle-Earth, the Dwarrow Scholar's Khuzdul dictionary on Scribd, and the Adunaic dictionary available on Google Drive, not to mention Wikipedia for things like the meanings of flowers and trees, and the types of crops which medieval farmers might have grown.
> 
> I am so glad everyone has enjoyed this fic, and I thank you all for your kind words and the joy they have brought me.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Distance of Age](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1217050) by [Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw/pseuds/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw)




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